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THE ROAD TO NOWHERE: SKETCHES IN SEARCH OF A NOVEL
by
MATTHEW L. FORSYTHE
(Under the Direction of Reginald McKnight)
ABSTRACT
The Road to Nowhere is a novel about David Kingman, a math teacher from the
fictional town of Midfield, Ohio. The plot itself is straightforward: one Friday in
October, Dave skips school. He is determined to climb Shuckstack, a mountain in the
Smokies that he once hiked with his Grandpa, but his plan devolves, transformed into
picaresque encounters with characters that distract, harass, and befriend him along the
way. Modeled after a trail guide, the novel‘s structure reflects this fragmentation. The
sketches are narrative prose, but they also incorporate maps, photographs, and even
mathematics assignments. Many occur on the roads and trails that link Midfield to
Shuckstack, while others explore the events from Dave‘s past that forged his peculiar
character.
The novel is preceded by a critical introduction, ―On Amusement Parks, Maps,
and the Perils of Realism: Fragmented Thoughts on a Sketchy Creation,‖ which examines
the origin and development of the manuscript. The essay touches on places and people in
the author‘s life that have influenced the novel‘s content; it also discusses the project‘s
structure and works of literature that provided inspiration.
The title of the novel is a reference to an abandoned construction project within
Great Smoky Mountains National Park, an incomplete road that suggests a metaphor for
Dave‘s quest and his life as a whole. The subtitle is a nod to the fragmented presentation
and the ongoing nature of the work.
INDEX WORDS:
Novel, Fiction, Hiking, Journeys, Great Smoky Mountains, Ohio,
Interstate 75, Mathematics, Christian Education, Grandfathers,
Maps.
THE ROAD TO NOWHERE: SKETCHES IN SEARCH OF A NOVEL
by
MATTHEW L. FORSYTHE
B.A., Calvin College, 1997
M.A., University of Tennessee, 1999
A Dissertation Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of The University of Georgia in Partial
Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
ATHENS, GEORGIA
2011
© 2011
Matthew L. Forsythe
All Rights Reserved
THE ROAD TO NOWHERE: SKETCHES IN SEARCH OF A NOVEL
by
MATTHEW L. FORSYTHE
Electronic Version Approved:
Maureen Grasso
Dean of the Graduate School
The University of Georgia
August 2011
Major Professor:
Reginald McKnight
Committee:
Judith Ortiz Cofer
Doug Anderson
iv
DEDICATION
For Gretchen. Discerning reader, loving partner, patient wife.
v
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I want to thank the members of my committee — Reg McKnight, Judith Ortiz
Cofer, and Doug Anderson — for their insight and encouragement. Reg and Judith have
been generous and challenging mentors. I respect their advice and value their friendship.
Professors at Tennessee and Calvin deserve to be mentioned as well: Allen Wier, Karen
Saupe, Gary Schmidt, Lionel Basney . . . the tip of the iceberg, a handful of the many
teachers who have shaped my career as a writer and academic.
My colleagues have provided valuable support. They witnessed the project‘s
evolution, and their observations informed the work‘s development: Andy Jameson, Jenn
Blair, John Spiers, Joshua Hussey, and many others. Special thanks goes to Jeff
Newberry and Andy Frazee, writers who entered the program with me, as well as my
peers whose emphasis is literature, especially Emily and Nicole. I have been blessed
with a talented cohort during my years in Athens.
Encouragement came from outside the department as well — friends and family
in Knoxville, Nashville, Dayton, Grand Rapids, and Tampa. Tom Okie offered a
perceptive reading of the opening sections, and close friends in Athens cheered the
work‘s progress, even though its completion would mean our imminent departure.
Mom and Dad, thank you. You have always valued and celebrated reading, and
you nurtured the imagination of your children, even as they envisioned paths that led
them far away from home. Shelly, I can‘t wait for your own dissertation to leave this one
in the dust. Juli & Dennis, we slip into the minds of horses and characters, and the
vi
principles of construction are applicable to decks as well as novels. Granddad &
Grandmother, Nana & Papa: watching your lives has taught me how to live.
Gretchen. What can I say? Your advice on the manuscript has been
indispensible, the critical eye that only a gifted reader can possess. But your love was
even more significant. You celebrated the breakthroughs and endured the silliness.
You‘ve kept me focused, and you led me away from despair. I will write many stories in
the coming decades. None of them will shape my life as you have.
vii
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Page
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS .................................................................................................v
ON AMUSEMENT PARKS, MAPS, AND THE PERILS OF REALISM:
FRAGMENTED THOUGHTS ON A SKETCHY CREATION.........................................1
THE ROAD TO NOWHERE: SKETCHES IN SEARCH OF A NOVEL ......................44
Prelude: Fontana Dam................................................................................45
Overture: East Tennessee ...........................................................................48
Review Problem – Overture.......................................................................51
SECTION I: THE DRAGON‘S BREW ...............................................................52
Suspect Driving ..........................................................................................53
Mailbox Baseball .......................................................................................57
Scenic Overlook: Highway 129 .................................................................63
Piss Off, Deacon ........................................................................................65
A Toast to the Roast ...................................................................................73
The French Broad ......................................................................................78
Review Problem – Section I ......................................................................85
SECTION II: MILLER LIGHT ............................................................................86
Recluse .......................................................................................................87
Travel by Barrel .........................................................................................91
Checklist ....................................................................................................93
Inventory ....................................................................................................94
viii
The Great G— M— ...................................................................................97
Gordon and the Fleece .............................................................................106
Living Under Prayer ................................................................................113
Hair Metal Songs That Would Make Excellent Themes for a Christian
High School Missions Trip (And/Or Chapel Service) .............................122
Pirates from The Church of Christ ...........................................................128
Two by Tuesday: A Triptych ...................................................................132
Recluse: Reprise.......................................................................................142
Review Problem – Section II ...................................................................146
SECTION III: LEAPS OF FAITH .....................................................................147
One Small Step for Matt ..........................................................................148
Nearby Attractions ...................................................................................160
Notes – EagleNet .....................................................................................162
Twelve Bucks an Hour.............................................................................167
YourChildsASlacker.com ........................................................................168
Southern Drift ..........................................................................................181
Bored Games ............................................................................................186
―R.O.U.S.? I don‘t think they exist‖ .......................................................189
Notes – Fischer College ...........................................................................196
Notes – Hendricks Dining Commons ......................................................199
Mission Control .......................................................................................202
Review Problem – Section III ..................................................................206
SECTION IV: THE BALLAD OF MR. PETE ..................................................207
Grandpa Speaks of Pittsburgh: Take I .....................................................208
ix
Foreign Men .............................................................................................211
Missionary Journeys ................................................................................212
Mr. Pete to the Rescue .............................................................................213
Mr. Pete‘s Speech: A Close Reading & Deconstruction .........................218
Rocket Launchers and Disenchantment ...................................................222
The Trinity of Mr. Pete ............................................................................225
Mr. Pete‘s Speech: A Close Reading & Deconstruction (Continued) .....249
Interview Transcript: Laura Walker.........................................................261
Interview Transcript: Patricia Kingman...................................................264
The Sad Demise of Mr. Pete ....................................................................267
Foreign Men: Reprise ..............................................................................271
Fossil Evidence ........................................................................................273
Timelines..................................................................................................276
―So Pre-Trib, I won‘t eat Post-Toasties‖ .................................................278
Grandpa Speaks of Pittsburgh: Take II ....................................................293
Eternal Security........................................................................................300
Grandpa Speaks of Pittsburgh, Take III ...................................................309
On Dayton, Ohio. Because if Pittsburgh resembles a direct hit, a shot that
God made Himself with the Celestial City Catapult, then Dayton was fired
by the disciples. After all, you can‘t find a better target than the crosshairs
formed by Interstates Seventy and Seventy-Five, not when aiming a
device whose sole purpose is slinging mid-sized metropolitan areas from
the coast to the heartland of the continent. Yet they missed, and Dayton
had landed several miles to the south ......................................................315
Review Problem – Section IV..................................................................316
SECTION V: TERMINAL HYDRAULIC ........................................................317
x
The Passion of the Miami Valley.............................................................318
The Crossroads of America .....................................................................319
The Gem City...........................................................................................320
Oral Examination: U.S. History, the Executive Branch ..........................323
Oral Examination: the Electoral College .................................................324
The Art of the Deal ..................................................................................325
Classifieds ................................................................................................326
Deluge ......................................................................................................327
A Helpful Explanation .............................................................................329
Beauty is Relative ....................................................................................330
Stillwater Christian ..................................................................................332
Pun with Grandpa ....................................................................................339
Tar Pits Jesus............................................................................................340
Christ the Redeemer .................................................................................345
Secretary of the Interior ...........................................................................351
Northern Kentucky, y‘all .........................................................................353
The First Tuesday in November ..............................................................366
Irresistible Grace ......................................................................................370
Hidden Valleys.........................................................................................372
How the RIAA killed the Realistic Novel ...............................................378
Prophets in Pantsuits ................................................................................382
Children of the Covenant .........................................................................387
Review Problem – Section V ...................................................................394
xi
SECTION VI: SUNDAES & SNAPSHOTS ......................................................395
Blount County Snapshots .........................................................................396
Meeting as Sundaes..................................................................................420
Application to Host a Special Event / Assembly .....................................437
The Sundae Schoolteacher .......................................................................441
What Happened to the Apples .................................................................447
What Stratham Said .................................................................................451
On the Schoolteacher Sundae ..................................................................455
Blount County Snapshots: Roll II ............................................................459
Contract Negotiations ..............................................................................474
Blount County Snapshots: Roll III...........................................................477
The Valley of the Vols .............................................................................495
SECTION VII: ENTER THE DRAGON ...........................................................506
A Rude Awakening ..................................................................................507
Q— & A— at The D— B— ....................................................................514
Advice ......................................................................................................531
The Hia-Wussy ........................................................................................534
Randy Volunteers.....................................................................................539
REFERENCES ................................................................................................................548
APPENDIX…. .................................................................................................................551
1
ON AMUSEMENT PARKS, MAPS, AND THE PERILS OF REALISM:
FRAGMENTED THOUGHTS ON A SKETCHY CREATION
1. A Growl in the Night: October 26, 2010
The forest was black — much darker than the sky, which carried the light of the moon.
The trail reflected its pale glow. The path traced the ridgeline, cutting a luminous swath
through the woods, and I picked my way down Shuckstack in the night. Dark veins of
roots clung to silver boulders. I turned the outer corner of a switchback, imitating the
cautious stride of a wounded hiker, and entered the next descent. My confidence
increased. The truck was less than a mile away.
That afternoon, sprawled in the summit clearing, I had revamped the ending of
The Road to Nowhere. A few hours after sunset, I was testing the new conclusion: at
night, could the path be hiked without a flashlight? I had suppressed my instincts — not
to mention my common sense — and buried my headlamp in the pack. I followed the
Appalachian Trail in the dark, using nothing but moonlight and trekking poles to direct
my careful steps. Alone in the Smokies, I was pleased at the bold maneuver. The plot
would be realistic. I imagined the landscape, the backdrop for the novel‘s final scene.
The growl was clear and distinct. I froze in my tracks. Little more than a grunt, it
carried surprise and irritation. My plan‘s folly was revealed. Obsessed with the story, I
had forgotten the wildlife. I swore at my hubris, gripped the poles, and braced for the
worst: a flurry of claw, tusk, or teeth. Leaves crunched as the animal shifted its footing,
2
not more than twenty yards away. I heard power in its weight. A bear, most likely. A
boar would have already charged.
―Shit,‖ I whispered. I could picture the headline in The Red and Black: ―Grad
Student Mauled.‖ Back in Athens, in the dungeons of Park Hall, my friends and
colleagues were slaving away on their dissertations. They fed their lives to their projects,
one panic attack at a time. Not me. I was about to surrender my flesh in a single,
imprudent hike.
2. Twenty-five Years Earlier: The Ohio Notebook
For the official credentials of this introduction — i.e., its pretentions as an academic
document — I would love to describe a scholarly moment that triggered the novel‘s
design. A passage by an acclaimed author that inspired the opening. A volume of critical
theory that spawned its fragmented structure. To my chagrin, the true origins are far
more humble. In the Fall of 1984, at Independent Baptist Academy, Mrs. Stockdale
assigned our 4th grade class the task of assembling an Ohio Notebook. The project was
modest at first: mimeographed worksheets about the state‘s history and photographs from
a family trip to the Ohio Historical Society. Section II (Climate and Geography) featured
a series of maps, and in Section III (State Symbols), the usual suspects were drawn and
discussed — the flag, song and seal — but also less typical features: the official beverage
(tomato juice), insect (ladybug), and gemstone (flint). Section IV (Industries) stretched
for thirty-one ambitious pages, but it was Section V (Cities) that truly went berserk. I
wrote to the Chamber of Commerce in towns throughout the state, and scores of
brochures soon arrived in the mail. I collected them in folders with pockets and placed
3
them in the notebook, disrupting the presentation with artifacts and stowaways —
precursors to the tangents, boxed passages, and miscellaneous debris thoughout The Road
to Nowhere.
The Ohio Notebook is a monolith. The binder is four inches thick, a testament to
the perilous intersection of my obsessive-compulsive habits, my reluctance to cut &
tendency to hoard, and a misguided hope that excess can substitute for quality. ―Ohio Is
The Greatest‖ boasts its laminated cover. In short — which at 135 pages, not counting
the pamphlets, it certainly is not — the work is a troublesome antecedent to my current,
quixotic endeavor. In T.O.N. are the same fixations that now burden T.R.N. Consider
the maps and photographs, the segmented design, and the sprawling construction. Not
that I noticed this correlation at once. On the contrary, it was well into the dissertation,
fighting with the design, that I spotted the notebook in my office.1 The connection was
disturbing. In The Road to Nowhere, I had translated my 4th grade project into fiction.
Two details strike me about this revelation. It took a long time to recognize the
influence, and its effect was most generative in the months that I was ignorant. After I
noticed the relationship, my attempts to apply the discovery grew forced. At best, I could
refine the elements already present. Unless I am paying deliberate homage, the guidance
of my favorite books is most profitable when their presence is subliminal, not selfconscious. Hence Sherwood Anderson‘s Winesburg, Ohio only surfaces once in the
novel, amid a discussion of Fisher College, yet the stories have numerous parallels:
George Willard‘s need to escape a small Ohio town, the interconnected sketches that are
not always linked to the central storyline, the perspective that drifts from the primary
1
See ―tendency to hoard.‖
4
character, the distortions of religion in ―Godliness‖ and ―The Strength of God,‖ and a
haunting statement by Elizabeth Willard — ―I wanted to run away from everything but I
wanted to run towards something too‖ (227) — that also applies to the quest of Dave
Kingman. All of these features are present in The Road to Nowhere, yet I have tried to
mask their importance. To forget it, even. When I start to obsess about the echoes, my
focus is diverted by academic play: How does Kate Swift, the schoolteacher, compare or
contrast with Bethany? What about the debates regarding marriage in ―The Untold
Lie‖? The exercise can be intellectually stimulating, but it disrupts the creative process. 2
The authors that I will discuss in these pages have all been important to the work‘s
construction, yet their effect was most potent when I did not spot the guidance.
In addition, consider the nonliterary nature of The Ohio Notebook, my philistine
muse. Works such as Anne Lamott‘s Bird by Bird, Natalie Goldberg‘s Writing Down the
Bones, John Gardner‘s On Becoming a Novelist, and Judith Ortiz Cofer‘s Woman in
Front of the Sun have affected my daily approach to the craft of writing. In fact, many of
them are precedents for the informal style of this (not so) critical introduction. Yet I
cannot point to a specific feature within The Road to Nowhere and identify their
influence, not the way that I can with the notebook. Another example involves the
mixture of text and map in the novel‘s opening. I admire Peter Turchi‘s critical insights
and envy the magnificent illustrations in Maps of the Imagination: The Writer as
Cartographer, but my design was actually inspired by AAA Trip Tiks from family
vacations.3 In these flip books, boxed descriptions of the landscape accompany each
2
John Gardner mentions a similar danger for writers who teach: ―Dealing day in and day out with
beginning writers, he finds himself forced continually to think in analytical fashion about problems he
would normally solve in other ways‖ (On Becoming a Novelist 115).
3
Turchi also discusses Trip Tiks, but without the same level of affection.
5
map, a technique that I adapted in the novel. Numerous authors experiment with
structure, but I wasn‘t copying a work of fiction when I dropped a fragmentation grenade
into the text. Instead, I was thinking about Kenneth Wise‘s Hiking Trails of the Great
Smoky Mountains: A Comprehensive Guide. In retrospect, I can also identify the King
James Version of the Bible, the maps to amusement parks, and the Special Extended
Edition DVD of The Fellowship of the Ring. I long to claim Calvino or Borges; alas, I
am stuck with the national zoo.
3. World Traveler: 1975-1985.
Two of my favorite books about the writing life are Eudora Welty‘s One Writer’s
Beginnings and Donald Hall‘s Life Work. Welty notes patterns of listening and observing
that marked her childhood and later enriched her vocation. Hall describes habits of work
that he learned from his Grandfather, comparing labors with language to daily routines on
a farm. In this essay, I will follow their lead and venture into autobiography, because
looking at where I have been sheds a peculiar light on the work that I now produce:
sometimes helpful, often misleading, and always full of shadows. To that end, consider
the dislocation in Dave‘s childhood, especially its contrast to Grandpa‘s attachment to the
Smokies. In the opening decade of my life, our family lived in South Carolina; Great
Britain; Washington (D.C.); Maryland; and Ohio (Wadsworth & Dayton). I spent eight
years in Dayton: to this day, the longest I‘ve lived in a single location — one explanation
for its prominent role on Dave‘s drive south.
I have no recollection of South Carolina, but the isolated fragments from our time
in England — including the bonfire at a Guy Fawkes Day celebration, a stream & bridge
6
near the village of Wendlebury, and a model train shop in Bourton-on-the-Water — all
emphasize setting. Some writers recall people or incidents; I remember locations. By the
time we moved to Dayton, I had established a routine when arriving in an unfamiliar
neighborhood: I would bike the streets, learning their names and compiling a mental
image of the landscape.4 Back at the kitchen table, I would transfer this vision to the
page. Young Ben Franklin imitated the prose of The Spectator. I drew maps. My
fascination with cartography also surfaced on trips to state parks, museums, battlefields
— any venue that offered a map at the entrance. Before I could enjoy myself, I wanted to
learn where everything was located. What‘s more, I was usually compelled to share this
information with my longsuffering family. The connection to the novel seems clear
enough. Again and again, I force maps onto my readers, ensuring — before the story can
proceed — that everyone knows exactly where they are.
In the move to Ohio, I entered the sphere of two important men: Papa and
Granddad. Unlike my itinerant life, these ancestors were rooted in place. Aside from his
World War II service with the 17th Airborne — the ―Thunder from Heaven‖ — Papa
lived most of his life in Cleveland. Granddad moved about eastern Ohio as a child, but
he settled in Columbus and enjoyed a successful career as a newspaper editor. Each
possessed an understanding of a specific, physical community that I would later associate
with writers such as Sarah Orne Jewett, Willa Cather, and Wendell Berry. Indeed, there
are traces of Michael Haupt and Thomas Forsythe in the life of Samuel Walker.
However, like other elements in the novel with debts to my past, the similarities were
strongest in the early drafts. They disappeared as the story developed. In my work,
4
Thus I was already modeling myself after Annie Dillard, who roamed the streets of Pittsburgh as a child:
―I walked and memorized the neighborhood. I made a mental map and located myself upon it‖ (An
American Childhood 313).
7
experience is often a fertile ground for triggering a character or plot, but the original
source becomes less and less prominent — unrecognizable, even — as the tale grows and
evolves.
4. Early Reading Projects: WBE & the KJV
What else from those years in Wadsworth?
• The elaborate town of Legos that I built in our basement. I established the street grid
first, a map to hold stories that developed.
• The woods in our backyard — a modest landscape, but dramatic enough for an eightyear-old boy. Although hundreds of miles from southwest Virginia, they are the
streams and ravines that I always envision in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.
• The World Book Encyclopedia that my parents bought in 1983. I devoured its
contents, although my most ambitious scheme — reading the entire collection from AZ — was stymied by the mind-numbing entry on the abacus and the interminable list of
abbreviations.
• My early, ongoing fascination with John Wesley Powell, who ventured into an
unmapped canyon.5
• My speed at math drills, which caused me to be identified — throughout elementary,
middle, and high school — as a future engineer or physicist. Even now, my oldest
friends are skeptical of this scribbling vocation. Perhaps the Review Problems will
reassure them.
At Clinton Christian Elementary and Independent Baptist Academy, I noticed that days
are filled with stories. What about the eight years at Dayton Christian? The four years at
Calvin that followed? Surely they relate to MCA and Fisher. Not really. Not that I‘m
willing to admit. Make no mistake, my time in Christian schools was significant to the
creation of the novel. It provided an early inspiration, a stockpile of (un)believable
5
Create your own analogy about an author struggling with his first novel, but recall the warning of Judith
Ortiz Cofer: ―There are no guarantees. That is the only guarantee in a life dedicated to discovery.‖ Writing
involves ―a walk into the unknown . . . without a map‖ (70).
8
details, and a cache of lore that I plundered when sculpting my fictional world. Yet there
are not direct correlations, at least very few. Like my Grandfathers, the ghosts of my
former schools have disappeared in each revision. The town of Midfield does not exist,
and MCA is an imaginary institution. I hope that it suggests a composite of Christian
education throughout the country, the triumphs as well as the follies.
The same principle applies to Reimer Road Baptist Church, where IBA classes
were bussed to attend the annual missionary conferences. We gawked at the slides of
African wildlife, asked speakers to sign our Bibles, and promised to serve overseas as
adults. None of the churches in The Road to Nowhere are based on Reimer Road. Nor
are they descendants of Patterson Park Church, where I was an active member of the
youth group. My parents still attend PPC, and their friends are eager to read the novel.
Some of the passages will delight them. Others will make them grimace. Yet I think of
that verse in Philippians — ―Whatsoever things are true‖ — and know that I‘ve tried,
even in scenes where God and Moses talk smack on the national links.
My faith is significant to the novel, a contrast (I hope) to the religious riff-raff that
clutters Dave‘s life. If its presence is worth anything, it will imbue the story with
kindness and generosity. Regardless of their beliefs, readers should laugh, squirm, and
lose themselves in the tale of this poor, misguided man. My mentors in this balance?
James Kilgo, whose life is the underground current that waters the landscape in Deep
Enough for Ivorybills. Donald Hall, who observes, ―To read what I have written, you
would not know that I am a Christian,‖ but describes his work as a form of spiritual
devotion (122). And Flannery O‘Connor, who claims that ―the final standard‖ for any
9
artist ―will have to be the demands of art, which are a good deal more exacting than the
demands of the Church‖ (Mystery and Manners 183-184).6
Let us pause for a moment. Before we abandon the sanctuary for the trail, note
the young boy in the pew at Reimer Road. He has set aside the Picture Bible, its
drawings now etched in his memory, and is reading his way through the King James
Version, far more intrigued by the text than the sermon. This is not his first attempt. He
has often cruised through the bloodshed and drama of Genesis, only to slow in the second
half of Exodus — that tedious swath in the wake of the Ten Commandments, pages of
laws and nary a plague in sight. He will inevitably flounder in the wasteland of
Leviticus. His entire childhood, he will be taught that the Scriptures are a single,
cohesive text, not sixty-six individual works. Keep that in mind — his warped concept of
textual unity — when reading the unusual novel that he constructs. From the KJV, he has
learned that parts of a book will involve a chronological plot, its pace often erratic and
filled with gaps. Significant passages wander away from the story. At times, they
introduce new genres — the Wisdom Books, for instance — that vary in length, style,
and perspective. Even after Malachi, when the anthology skips four hundred years and
returns to the central narrative, the ―begats‖ that jump-start the gospel of Matthew, the
work remains avant-garde: four accounts of the same events, each slightly inconsistent; a
collection of letters and ―found‖ documents; an apocalyptic conclusion that spins wildly
6
―What we are is going to be visible in our art, no matter how secular (on the surface) the subject may be,‖
according to Madeleine L‘Engle (141). ―I‘m like any other novelist,‖ says Frederick Buechner. ―I‘m
trying to listen to what goes on in the lives of my characters‖ (qtd. in Brown Of Fiction and Faith 32).
Flannery gets the last word: ―We reflect the Church in everything we do, and those who can see clearly
that our judgment is false in matters of art cannot be blamed for suspecting our judgment in matters of
religion‖ (190).
10
out of control. If you count the Apocrypha and other non-canonical books, it even comes
with its own deleted scenes.
When this young man enters college, he will be drawn to works that experiment
with structure. Think Melville‘s paragraphs about whales are dull? Try the inventories
in Numbers. Are T.S. Eliot‘s allusions challenging? Take the book of Revelation for a
spin — the stakes not a grade, but the fate of your soul. Trying to faze him with raw,
visceral content? Nothing he‘ll encounter in a classroom will approach the graphic,
sexual violence throughout the Old Testament. For years, he has been taught close
reading: sola scriptura, and ―scripture interprets scripture.‖ He memorized hundreds of
verses, and each week, he listened to a grown man lecture about sentences. In graduate
school, he will be horrified to discover that certain writers begin their interpretations with
theory, then apply that theory to the text. In his mind, such rash behavior is more than
poor scholarship: it‘s heresy.
Have mercy on him. Is it really a surprise, when he sits down to compose a novel,
that he breaks the narrative into sections, then sub-divides these sections into sketches?
That he creates a story with chunks of text that drift from the central plot? A work that
goes on and on and on and on? A collection filled with random documents — some
relevant, others tangential? A story that requires a massive leap to finally reach The End?
5. Maps Maps Maps Maps Maps Maps Maps
In the summer of 1985, my family stayed for a week at the Officers Christian Fellowship
camp in White Sulphur Springs, Pennsylvania. One day, I returned to the room and
discovered a book on the bed. The cover featured three young children, a sword that
11
glowed with blue light, and a mysterious island fortress. On the back? A giant snake, a
sorcerer, and skeletons on demonic bats, hunting two women on a Pegasus. The title was
The Tower of Geburah, the subtitle was A Fantasy, and the allegory was rather heavyhanded. But none of that bothered me. The work had a single quality that redeemed
everything else: it included a map of the fictional kingdom of Anthropos.
I devoured the book and its sequels, plus writing by Stephen Lawhead, C.S.
Lewis, and J.R.R. Tolkein, no different than millions of preteen readers who have longed
for adventures in other worlds. I will not elaborate on this subject, which I have
discussed in the essay ―Don‘t Forget the Map‖ — an account of a story I wrote in 8th
grade, an imitation of The Tower of Geburah. Still, it would be profitable to mention my
favorite edition of The Lord of the Rings, which included a large, pull-out map that
enabled the reader to track the precise location of every character. In addition, consider
my earliest attempt to write a fantasy novel: the file only contains a handful of pages of
prose, but it holds dozens and dozens of maps. Drawn on every conceivable scale, they
limn my fictional world.
6. A Mind in the Making: 1989-1997
In high school, I enjoyed my English classes, especially the informal writing prompts, but
I was less than enthralled with the required readings. My lack of focus was probably to
blame. After all, I remember thinking that ―Arthur Unknown‖ was a rather prolific poet.
Too many activities laid claim to my attention: soccer and track, band, science fairs,
church, and the spring musical. I continued with theater throughout college, and the next
stage in my development as a writer was a series of one-act plays — sANITY,
12
SuperGoggleMan: Adventures of a Costumed Vigilante, and *some assembly required —
that I wrote and saw produced. My fondness for composing dialogue, especially
vignettes with circular or absurd banter, can be spotted in scenes at The Dragon‘s Brew.7
What else is worth noting from that time at Calvin?
• Ed Ericson‘s sonorous voice, reading Wordsworth and Coleridge the spring semester of
my sophomore year. Tintern Abbey lured me out of Mathematics and into the field of
English.
• The essay on Washington Irving that I wrote for Clarence Walhout, the beginning of
my fascination with The Sketch Book. Like George Willard and Winesburg, Ohio, the
influence of Geoffrey Crayon and his fragmented creation can be traced throughout The
Road to Nowhere.
• My class on Literary Criticism with Susan Felch, when I first composed an analogy
between hiking and studying literature — the centerpiece of my current teaching
statement.
• New England Saints, my Interim class with Gary Schmidt and Dale Brown. In January
1997, we tramped about Concord, Massachusetts, and the northeast corner of the
country. We toured the Old Manse, hiked at Walden Pond, and stayed in a B & B
across the street from Bronson Alcott‘s house. Those weeks deepened my urge to visit
the actual setting of works.8
7. Shuckstack, Take I: Fall 1996
My junior year at Calvin, I travelled with friends to the Smoky Mountains for a week of
backpacking during spring break.9 The Smokies were unfamiliar terrain, and we
7
This habit can also be traced to Monty Python and the Holy Grail, that staple of youth group humor.
Connections between The Holy Grail and The Road to Nowhere are readily apparent: the work as a series
of sketches; the liberal use of titles, interludes, and voiceovers; irreverent passages that feature a cartoonish
god; absurd plots that circle back on themselves, leading to random, anticlimactic conclusions. In short,
another unsophisticated muse.
8
As a bonus, after visiting a used book store, Dale handed me a copy of Graham Greene‘s The Power and
the Glory. Seldom has a reading suggestion proved more beneficial: the whiskey priest and Dave Kingman
have a great deal in common.
9
My companions included Jay, hero of the essay ―Rev. Blankespoor — Or, How I Scrapped the
Semicolon and Learned to Love the Dash.‖ He assigned me the trail name ―Strapper,‖ inspired by
numerous items I lashed to the outside of my pack. Like footnotes, in a way.
13
followed a recommendation about the southwest corner of the park. In many respects,
the week was terrible: we were underprepared for the March weather, and the Pinnacle
Creek Trail required an ungodly number of stream crossings. We were cold, wet, and
tired for a significant portion of our vacation. Yet it was also amazing, one of the
greatest weeks of my life: rushing creeks, isolated campsites, mountaintop meadows,
thru-hikers on the AT, and the Shuckstack fire tower, where Jay and I climbed through a
hole in the ceiling.10 I was instantly drawn to that section of the country, not to mention
the maps that help you explore it.
The following year, in a workshop with Lionel Basney, I wrote a story called
―Damascus,‖ an attempt to wander the Smokies in fiction. A young man named Aaron
returns to the mountains and retraces his steps from a college backpacking trip. At the
tale‘s conclusion, this aspiring writer is granted a vision for the coming decades of his
life.11 The connection to The Road to Nowhere is obvious: the protagonist returns to
Shuckstack‘s tower. But there are subtle links as well. Aaron talks about the landscape
with the Mariner, a grizzled backpacker. According to Basney, this older hiker was a
form of Trail Confessor, a concept I‘ve modified within the novel. A series of
individuals and memories force Dave to acknowledge the person he has become. In other
words, the most central form of confession that exists.
―Damascus‖ was not a success. Aaron is not a memorable character, and little
about his tale would prompt readers to turn the page. The title refers to Damascus,
Virginia, an objective of AT hikers traveling north. It‘s less than a third of the way to
Maine, but once they arrive, they have already crossed three states. If they‘ve walked
10
11
Don‘t tell Mom.
I know, I know — I‘m wincing too.
14
that far, they might as well hike all the way. At the time, I embraced this notion.12 These
days, I‘m a lot more jaded. I‘ve learned the challenge of those final miles. Approaching
the end is no guarantee that you‘ll finish. Some mornings, the trail is easy: the earth rolls
beneath your feet. On others, your progress is feeble: every step — or sentence — is a
struggle of the will. Also, under the influence of Andy Frazee and Charles Baxter, I‘ve
grown suspicious of epiphanies.13 As a result, Dave does not discover much on the
summit. If anything, he learns that his own heart is the greatest enemy.14
8. Shuckstack, Take II: Spring 1998
That week in the Smokies had far-reaching consequences. Applying to M.A. programs, I
recalled the mountains of the south, grimaced at the thought of another Michigan winter,
and noticed the (relatively) small application fee at the University of Tennessee. It was a
great fit: two years of study with Allen Wier led to a significant improvement in my
fiction, and I wandered the Smokies on a regular basis. In the Spring of 1998, I began
work on a novel called Damascus. The lead character was a young woman named
Tracy/Kendra (depending on the draft) who was hiking in the Smokies, avoiding the trail
where her Grandpa had been injured. The project didn‘t go far. At the time, most of my
12
I also enjoyed the connection to the apostle Paul — like Aaron, a hiker who encounters an epiphany.
13
Reading an early draft of the novel, Andy expressed his hope that the summit would not involve a
clichéd revelation — a decision to marry Bethany, or Dave hurling the ring from the peak. His remarks
were reinforced by Charles Baxter: ―epiphanic endings . . . have become a tic, a habit,‖ and radiant insight
has become ―routine‖ (53).
Jim Shepard also discusses ―the tyranny of the epiphany‖ and laments the number of works ―in which the
protagonists are whooshed along the little conveyor belts of their narratives to that defining moment of
insight or clarification.‖ But ―an enhanced level of self-awareness‖ is not a solution to a character‘s
problems: ―we can be intricately self-aware and yet still geniuses at self-destruction‖ (Bringing the Devil to
His Knees 18-19).
14
Which is related to Jeremiah 17:9, a verse that he quotes in Section II. Though it also strikes me as
similar to Luke Skywalker‘s experience in the cave on Dagobah, Yoda‘s home planet, in The Empire
Strikes Back. In other words, it confirms my status as an academic charlatan.
15
fiction was written in first person, and the protagonist‘s voice was insufficient for the
task.
I salvaged an excerpt from Damascus — ―The Legend of Taco Mike‖ — to
include in Loop Trails: Stories, my Master‘s thesis.15 It contains themes that would
reappear in The Road to Nowhere, but I hadn‘t found the character to hold them together.
A similar issue plagues ―The Tower,‖ my second attempt to write about Shuckstack. In
October 1998, I had hiked from Fontana Dam to the tower, where I managed to jam the
trap door and seal myself in the observation room. Later, after I pried the panel loose, the
predicament struck me as an interesting metaphor: a man hikes to the summit, only to
trap himself in the objective. The concept still intrigues me, but fiction whose central
purpose is allegorical will seldom breathe with life. In early drafts, the hiker doesn‘t even
have a name. He is simply an object lesson.16
9. Intermission: 1999-2005
I didn‘t write much in the next six years. Instead, I accepted a job as a Lecturer at
Tennessee, teaching 8-11 courses a year. Numbers don‘t indicate quality, but — like
15
The title hints at movement without progress. When walking a loop trail, hikers end at the spot they
began. At the same time, an interior growth can occur on the journey.
One of the epigraphs — Albert Camus‘s statement ―One must imagine Sisyphus happy‖ — has
implications for Dave‘s life as well, and he compares both hikers and teachers to this mythic figure.
Another epigraph — ―I do not run like a man running aimlessly; I do not fight like a man beating the air,‖
Paul‘s claim in I Corinthians — can also be applied to his predicament. He swings at the air on multiple
occasions: not only his fights with Randy and the Coldwater coach, but his dream of battling an invisible
opponent.
The binding on the thesis was misprinted, and anyone looking for the manuscript in Tennessee‘s library
will discover Loop Trials: Stories, an apt warning to potential readers.
16
O‘Connor warns writers not to envision ―some action and then [scrounge] up a character to perform it.
You will usually be more successful if you start the other way around. If you start with a real personality, a
real character, then something is bound to happen; and you don‘t have to know what before you begin. In
fact it may be better if you don‘t know what before you begin. You ought to be able to discover something
from your stories. If you don‘t, probably nobody else will‖ (105-106).
16
Hall‘s awe at the many times he has revised ―Another Elegy‖ — I‘m proud of the work
they represent. This fall, I‘ll be teaching my 63rd college course. In the classroom, I
deepened my grasp of basic techniques and sharpened my talents at critiquing fiction.17
In retrospect, it might have been better for my career to enter a PhD program a
few years sooner. Yet I don‘t regret the decision.18 In addition to honing my skills as a
teacher, I logged hundreds of miles on the trail. I memorized rivers and mountains and
valleys. These days, I seldom need a map when hiking in the Smokies. I still carry one,
of course — but for pleasure, not utility.
10. Shuckstack, Take III: 2005-2006
Fall 2005: English 6800
I never received a formal acceptance to UGA. I was about to commit to the MFA
program at Hollins University when an email arrived from Dr. Moran. Addressed to the
incoming PhD class, it reminded us to register for courses. In a flurry of phone calls, I
determined that I had been admitted: the department had simply neglected to inform me.
So I often wondered about my place, a fear that intensified in my initial workshop. The
first students to submit fiction were Kirsten Kaschock and Sian Griffiths, both in their
final year. Their prose had a poise and authority that my writing lacked, and I resolved to
narrow this gap. Kirsten‘s excerpts from Sleight encouraged me to take risks with
17
There‘s a limit to this benefit, of course. You ―can learn the basics of how to write a story . . . and still
be unable to write a good story. . . . Acquiring a basic competency in an art or craft is a necessity but will
get its practitioner almost nowhere, if we define a ‗destination‘ as the completion of a beautiful or solid
piece of work. Competency must be allied, must give way, to good judgment, energy, and creativity . . .
[to] passion and vision‖ (Baxter and Turchi Bringing the Devil to His Knees 1).
18
During my time as a Lecturer, I met, dated, and married Gretchen. I‘m a few years behind in the race to
snatch tenure, but I came out on top in the end.
17
content and style, and Sian‘s Borrowed Horses demonstrated the powerful combination
of experience and imagination.
The date of my first submission approached. Scrambling for ideas, I decided to
rewrite the failed story about the tower. I deconstructed the original, keeping only the
central framework: the man climbing Shuckstack, his thoughts alternating between past
and present. The hiker became Dave, a Christian schoolteacher from Dayton, Ohio,
granting me access to a vast knowledge of evangelical subculture. I‘ve tried to be fair.
My aim is a delicate balance. I poke fun at peculiar traditions, but I hope to avoid a bitter
or mean-spirited presentation.
I almost made Dave an English teacher, but the role didn‘t fit. Besides, the world
is overstocked with novels about the humanities. So Dave teaches math, which explains
why he often views his surroundings as a series of equations. It also inspired the word
problem that drives the story: can a teacher skip town on a Thursday night, travel to the
Smokies, hike to the top of Shuckstack, and return to Ohio before he is missed? 19
Eventually — as Reg noted — his journey required a stronger impetus. What compels
him toward the mountain? What’s at stake? Why should readers be interested in
following? But the ticking clock provided a temporary placeholder. It structured the
adventure and spurred his movement forward.
Important details were introduced: the principal as antagonist, the relationship
with Bethany, and the question of marriage that surfaces throughout the work. Dave has
purchased a ring, an impulsive choice that contrasts his typical indecision.20 Beth was
19
20
In a way, isn‘t every novel a type of word problem?
The fact that he carries a ring also provides echoes of Frodo and Middle-earth, which is appropriate,
because few works of literature are co-opted more often by evangelical subculture. I‘ve heard numerous
devotionals and sermon illustrations that encourage Christians to picture themselves as characters in
18
not sympathetic in these early drafts. One of the novel‘s challenges is Dave‘s
perspective. He poses for the camera, presenting himself as a rebel and his girlfriend as
the teacher who believes in MCA with all her heart. Such a misleading bias isn‘t the only
problem. I had always envisioned a lyrical description of the passing landscape, but I
didn‘t trust Dave for the delivery. In fact, his struggle to connect to this once-familiar
region is a noteworthy sign of his true deracination.21 My solution was the book‘s
earliest form of fragmentation. At the start of each chapter, an italicized passage would
pan across the setting, establishing the backdrop for scenes that followed. Later, I pulled
these sections into sketches of their own, which triggered a domino effect and shattered
the entire novel.
Spring 2006: English 8800
That spring, when Judith announced that her multigenre seminar was a projectcompletion workshop, I worried — once again — that I was in the wrong place. After
all, Dave‘s manic adventure was just getting started. I soon learned the value of poets in
our midst. Danielle Pafunda offered a careful analysis of the timing and presentation in
the near-wreck with the mail truck.22 In another passage — when Dave examines the
ring box — she observed my habit of overextending the descriptions of commonplace
objects, among the most practical advice that I‘ve ever received in a writing course.
Tolkein‘s world. Dave projects his quest against that epic landscape. Readers, of course, should spot the
disjunction. If his journey is classified as epic, it also requires the adjective mock.
21
Baxter contends that the way ―a person sees the things that surround him usually tells us more than an
explicit description of his mood.‖ The landscape is more than ―just a place where action occurs. . . .
Setting projects a mode of feeling that corresponds to — or contrasts with — the action (73, 81).
22
This scene interests me, given its origins in a girlfriend‘s fender-bender with the USPS, yet it always
seems to bore readers. Sooner or later, I‘ll probably need to take Dillard‘s advice: ―It will be a miracle if
you can save some of the paragraphs, no matter how excellent in themselves or hard-won. You can waste a
year worrying about it, or you can get it over with now‖ (The Writing Life 550).
19
New characters entered the story, changing its tone and direction. I included a
brief reference to Mr. Pete, and Randy arrived in dramatic fashion. Dave had been
spending a lot of time by himself. Because so much action took place in memory, the
present was dull by comparison. Miles of trees would not captivate a reader: the trail
needed excitement.23 Randy‘s attitude intrigued me, especially his assault on
conventional interaction. He refused to leave, pestering Dave along the trail.24
11. Trail Conditions: 2006-2007
• Gordon, Tar Pits Jesus, and the Sundae Schoolteacher competition found their way into
the novel.
• Kristen Iskandrian‘s project The School challenged my assumptions about narrative
and encouraged me to view works of fiction as physical structures.
• I drafted a history of Samuel Walker‘s life — his service in World War II & courtship
of Lily — employing a style that imitates the much-maligned Appendix to The Sound
and the Fury.
• Two assignments by Professor Cofer — a (failed) attempt at microfiction, and an essay
about our favorite piece of punctuation — started my experiments with short,
segmented forms.
• I brought a shoebox diorama to class, which has led me to imagine the entire novel as a
form of Show & Tell: not only the mixture of scene (show) and summary (tell), but a
collection of objects that a novelist curates.
• I aimed for the mountains, but Dave stopped at a venue I had not planned: The
Dragon‘s Brew.25 The locals claimed the story for themselves.26 In early drafts, this
23
C.J. Hribal observes ―our appetite, as readers who write, for things to happen,‖ for ―drama . . . to break
through a large bubble of recollection or interior reflection or explanation‖ (148).
24
In a sense, Randy is what Kurt Vonnegut and Susan Neville refer to as the Iago — the individual who
acts as a ―catalyst‖ in the story, a ―character that bounces all the other characters around‖ (33-34).
I‘ve often told students that characters fall into one of two categories, each of them found in the classic
80s movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. If their character is a Ferris, they‘re in luck: all they have to do is
follow him out the door, and he‘ll find the adventure on his own. If their character is a Cameron, they need
a Ferris to arrive and disrupt the status quo. I offer examples from fantasy and science fiction: Gandalf
arrives for Bilbo and Frodo, Luke Skywalker requires Obi-wan Kenobi, Neo has Morpheus, and Harry
Potter gets Dumbledore. Dave needs Gordon, Tar Pits Jesus, and Randy to nip at his heels.
25
Although The Dragon is an actual stretch of road, The Dragon‘s Brew is a fictional location. Every few
months, I run an anxious web search, concerned that a caffeine-loving motorcycle enthusiast has claimed
20
scene was often groan-inducing, especially Emily‘s observation that Dave must be the
happiest man in the world, since the one thing he wanted — coffee — was something
he already held in his hand.
• Two helpful insights: Jenn Blair offered a keen observation that Grandpa‘s story was
too lyrical to be from Dave‘s perspective, and Josh Hussey warned about moments
when the hand of the author was too apparent.27
12. Reading & Rambling
Ignore my earlier protestation that influence is best when subconscious: it smacks of an
arrogance that I discourage in my students. Teacher, heal thyself. The truth is, I am
constantly gaining technique and inspiration from works that I encounter. Some of this
impact is immediate: I set down a book and pick up the pen. More often, it takes time to
absorb, and the effect grows apparent in years to come. Thus it only makes sense that my
coursework has lurched into the background of the novel.
Fall 2005: American Literature to 1820
In an auspicious and providential move, our class opened with The Sketch Book. In The
Road to Nowhere and Washington Irving‘s collection, the plot is composed of sketches
— some sequential, others related by theme or location. The central narrative is
interrupted by stories and legends, and Geoffrey Crayon follows passages into the core of
buildings, where he encounters new, unforeseen rooms and spaces. Both the doorways in
the name. I owe the venue‘s inspiration to Nicole Camastra and Emily Kane, two of my closest friends in
the program. In a class on Hemingway, they joked that if a PhD didn‘t land them jobs, they would open a
bakery: The Bun Also Rises. The proprietress — one of my favorite characters in the book — is named
Emily in their joint honor.
As for Deacon, the professor who‘s happiest when immersed in a book, yet who keeps getting dragged
into pointless and interminable debates? He owes a fraction of his existence to a certain ex-department
head that frequents the ERC.
26
27
―The characters arrive when evoked,‖ says Forster, ―but full of the spirit of mutiny‖ (66).
According to Gardner, ―This is perhaps the chief offense in bad fiction: we sense that characters are
being manipulated, forced to do things they would not really do‖ (On Becoming a Novelist 20).
21
The Sketch Book and the boxes in The Road to Nowhere are portals that lead deeper into
the text.
I grew fascinated with the fragmentation throughout early American Literature,
especially in William Bradford‘s Of Plymouth Plantation and Benjamin Franklin‘s
Autobiography — their uneven & segmented design; the exchanges, trades, and
transactions that preoccupy each work; the letters and documents that infiltrate the
narrative. Also, neither work actually concludes. The projects were too ambitious for
Bradford and Franklin to finish. Of Plymouth Plantation ends with headings for the years
1647 & 1648, but the entries are void of text. At the end of his Autobiography, Franklin
provides an outline of events that he plans to discuss in future pages — a list that closes
with a simple ―To France, Treaty, &c.‖ (272). Which lessens my embarrassment at the
current, summarized form of Sections VIII and IX.
Spring 2006: American Literature since 1960
A catalogue of authors I admire: Faulkner, Welty, O‘Conner, Percy, Berry, Chappell,
Crews, and Brown. They all emphasize place, especially the Appalachians and the south.
Welty‘s story ―The Wide Net‖ demonstrates the power of mapping a mythology onto a
landscape, and Sam Walker would feel right at home among Wendell Berry‘s Port Royal
Membership. Larry Brown‘s Fay reveals the havoc that a single character can initiate, a
subject that Dave contemplates as well — how a random encounter can shape the course
of a life. Finally, Walker Percy‘s Love in the Ruins, subtitled The Adventures of a Bad
Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World, features the narrator Thomas More, a
22
character with parallels to my novel‘s hero: nominal Christians on the run, their dilemma
both a comic farce and a serious predicament.28
Fall 2006: Faulkner
Traces of Faulkner‘s novels are visible throughout The Road to Nowhere. As I Lay Dying
is a clear antecedent, a ludicrous plan that quickly unravels. Both stories involve a
complex system of family rivalries, especially the tension between siblings who share a
mother but not a father, and Faulkner presents the plight of the Bundrens in a fragmented
manner, including perspectives that disagree. In addition, the itemized list that Cash
provides about the casket is echoed in Dave‘s checklist before leaving the apartment, and
in an interview slated for Section VIII, Rachel will offer a brutal, one-line response —
―My brother is an ass‖ — that plays on Vardaman‘s celebrated ―My mother is a fish.‖
When ―The Ballad of Mr. Pete‖ took its massive detour from Dave‘s journey
south, I found solace in the fact that a similar, risky move occurs within Light in August.
Faulkner suspends the central narrative, allowing the work to circle through time and
follow the life of Joe Christmas. Go Down, Moses also uses a complex, segmented
format, and ―The Bear‖ is divided even further: in its fourth section, the novella abandons
the hunting camp to wander the labyrinth of the McCaslin ledgers. Finally, Absalom,
Absalom is constantly reaching back in time, based on Quentin Compson‘s suspect
premise that the past can be understood. When I determined that The Road to Nowhere
would consist of nine sections — a plan that I‘ve stubbornly maintained, even as the plot
28
As Flannery O‘Connor says in an Introduction to Wise Blood, ―all comic novels that are any good must
be about matters of life and death‖ (8). In another essay, I have written about the extensive connections
between Love in the Ruins and The Power and the Glory. It is interesting to consider The Road to Nowhere
as part of that conversation.
23
veered in unexpected directions — I claimed that my choice was based on sports. A
baseball game has nine divisions of unpredictable length; so would my novel. But the
structure also paid homage to the nine, uneven chapters of Quentin‘s struggle with
Thomas Sutpen‘s ghost.
Spring 2007: Hemingway
Heeding the well-worn adage, I chased Faulkner with Hemingway to flush the syntax
from my system. The core appeal was a chance to examine his original manuscripts. The
work that I selected, ―A Natural History of the Dead,‖ seemed like an obvious fit, a
monograph about nature writing that segued into a fictional sketch. True to form, I
studied its fragmented origins and the complex narrative. Along the way, I also
considered its role within Death in the Afternoon, where the Author gives the tale to the
Old Lady. As critics have noted, the Author is a fictional construction, not Hemingway
himself, and I adapted this conceit in The Road to Nowhere, where the character of M—
F—, the Author of the novel, argues with m— f—, the critic who enters the text.29
Of course, the most obvious comparison involves the Research Packet that Dr.
Nagel assigned. We were required to find and document every reference to our story in
critical articles, books, biographies, and reviews. He emphasized the thoroughness that
was expected, which unleashed the same fiends that created The Ohio Notebook. My
packet of notes, photocopies, quotes, and summaries was hundreds of pages long, and I
have often wondered how much of that impulse — the urge to collect everything — has
crossed from my academic work into the composition of the novel.
29
m— f—, my version of the Old Lady, is a juvenile pun: my inner critic is a little m— f—.
24
Fall 2007: Poe
At first glance, Poe‘s fiction and my jumbled creation have little in common. After all,
Edgar is famous for his stress on the unity of effect, and my novel is anything but unified.
Yet Poe‘s longer works — ―The Unparalleled Adventures of Hans Pfaall,‖ ―The Mystery
of Marie Roget,‖ and The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym — are often imbalanced in
their structure. Furthermore, he too employs riddles, puns, codes, and hoaxes, and
struggling to bring a tale home, we both will attempt a giant leap.
13. Inventory: Summer 2007
After two years in Athens, Gretchen and I drove west on a tour of the mountains in
Colorado and Wyoming. We hiked, camped, and recovered. Each day, I was given five
minutes to complain about grad school. After that, I had to shut up and enjoy myself.
They were good weeks.
14. Excuse Me, Could You Spare a Pair of Eyes?
I read and read and read and read and read — not only for Comprehensive Exams, but at
The Georgia Review as well. I had little time to write, which was ironic, because the
more novels and books about craft that I devoured, the greater the itch to get back to the
page. In recent years, these texts have surfaced in my fiction. Some of the influence is
obvious: on my American to 1900 list, I emphasized works with fragmentation. But a
shift in priorities can also be observed: I designed my 20th Century American list with an
emphasis on setting, but grew more and more interested in the elusive narrators. I have
discussed such topics ad nauseum, so I will not belabor them here.
25
Less obvious parallels between The Road to Nowhere & works that I studied.
• The ―In which‖ statements from each Trail Guide are a tribute to the subtitles in
Winnie-the-Pooh, but the italicized lists are a nod to Olaudah Equiano‘s Narrative and
Mark Twain‘s Roughing It. Roughing It had a significant impact on the entire novel:
Twain‘s eagerness to insert ―set pieces‖ into the text; the detours and diversions; the
stubborn refusal to end the work; the compulsion to include Appendices; the role of the
visual in the early editions; and even the notion of ―Roughing It‖ — sketching out an
idea, without fretting the imprecision.
• The multiple versions of Frederick Douglass‘s Narrative are related to my interest in
providing both a short, initial version of the novel and a longer, expanded director‘s cut.
• I‘m not a huge fan of The Confidence-Man, but the sequence of forms that the title
character assumes has influenced a trio — Gordon, Tar Pits Jesus, and Randy — that all
stalk Dave throughout The Road to Nowhere.
• The scenes of Dave on the road were inspired — in part — by the long, circular drive
of Harry ―Rabbit‖ Angstrom in John Updike‘s Rabbit, Run. The debates about
authenticity can be traced to Tim O‘Brien‘s The Things They Carried. And the novel‘s
structure owes part of its circular motion to the ―shadow casting‖ in Norman
Macclean‘s A River Runs Through It, which happens to be a far more chaotic, episodic,
unruly, and beautiful novella than readers tend to recall.
• The most extensive influence is David James Duncan‘s The River Why. His comic
novel contains four sections, all subdivided into chapters, and Gus takes a series of
ludicrous journeys. The story involves an emphasis on place and family, especially the
need to re-forge these connections; it makes extensive use of documents, quotes, and
headings; and it mocks religion in an effort to contemplate truth.
15. Frustration & Fragmentation: Spring & Summer, 2009
The first half of 2009 is not a season I like to remember. The miscarriage in January, the
months devoted to recovery. In Park Hall, assisting Judith with her graduate workshop, I
was frustrated with the novel. I pushed it to the side and played: ―Library Incident Less
Violent Than Reported‖ (a bizarre story), and a ―news report‖ from The PhD Combine30;
an essay about setting my apartment on fire while working on a poem, and a piece of
30
Set in a universe where English departments follow the rules of the NFL Draft when making their hires.
The lowest-ranked program picks first: spreading the wealth, as opposed to the conservative, trickle-down
model we currently employ.
26
nonfiction about memorable classroom gaffes. In short, anything to avoid The Road to
Nowhere.
The Prospectus revealed a troubling prospect: I wasn‘t that thrilled by Dave‘s
story. I devised an escape hatch, a note about a ―Shadow Project‖ (short stories and
essays that I was collecting), and Judith called my bluff. Embarking on a dissertation
was hard enough. Why sabotage the effort by hedging my bets and diluting my
commitment? At first I was annoyed. Yet everything she said was true. I considered the
elements that had made writing enjoyable that spring: the invention and risk, the feeling
that I was at play, the experiments with form and perspective. Could I somehow import
them into the novel, charging it with energy and life?
When you‘re lost, consult the map. So I did. I fused the italicized passages with
highway maps, satellite images, and photographs.31 At a scenic overlook, visitors glance
at the landscape and read about the view at a display. In the book, readers consider the
graphics and descriptions; they turn the page, step onto the trail, and disappear into a
character‘s life. I began to describe the work as a trail guide, divided by region and
subdivided into hikes. Certain paths could be combined, forming a linear sequence,
while others were self-contained units. If readers grew weary, they would always be
close to something new. It was easy to insert documents and tangents. For example, I
had created a backstory about Emily and The Dragon‘s Brew; however, because Dave
was an outsider, this information had to arrive through dialogue — conversations that
were stilted and forced. On the other hand, the gossip seemed natural for a chatty, smalltown newspaper column. It took most of the summer to redesign the opening, but the
31
Due to concerns about copyright, many of these elements — including all of the satellite images — have
been removed from the edition of the dissertation that is available online.
27
result was worth the effort — not simply the material on the page, but my newfound
excitement about the project.
16. Narrative Design: Fall & Winter, 2009-2010
Back at Dave‘s apartment, I indulged in a whimsical streak: the Geology of Sweaters, the
map of Cracker Barrels. Gordon arrived in the OC, bringing a new dilemma. I wanted to
include a few stories about him, but the flashbacks were getting complex. What I needed
was a hyperlink, access for readers who were interested. Others could bypass the
material, which I placed inside a box, simulating a window that might open on a
computer screen. Solid lines would imply separation, but a pattern of dots and dashes
formed a permeable boundary, encouraging readers to slip through the cracks. As a
bonus, they possessed a subliminal echo: a child with scissors might cut out the shapes,
refashioning the text at will.
I was working with freedom, having removed the constraints of setting the novel
in Dayton. I had been holding back, concerned that friends and family would search for
themselves in the text. As a solution, I dropped a fictional city between Lima and
Findlay. Dave could still follow I-75, retaining that image of the I-75/I-70 cross — the
burden of religion, buried within his route of escape. But the greatest benefit was my
relief. Now that Midfield and MCA were undeniably fictional, I could unleash myself on
them both.
The closing sketches of Section II contain echoes of its opening moments,
including the use of present tense. The duo has returned to Shady Grove, and Dave ends
the section as he began it — alone, but with the sense of being watched. The protagonist
28
and the reader have travelled a loop trail. In that sense, it prefigures the movement in
Section VIII, when Dave will follow the Lakeshore Trail before circling back to the AT.
Considered as a whole, the entire novel involves these matched pairs; the sections
descend into the flood and rise again to the summit:
Section I – Movement toward the Dragon‘s Brew
Section II – Loop trail in Midfield
Section III – Movement along I-75
Section IV – Loop through the past (Hocking County)
Section V – Flood
Section VI – Loop through the past (Blount County)
Section VII – Movement along the Dragon
Section VIII – Loop trail in the Smokies
Section IX – Movement toward the Summit
I did not set out to structure the novel in this manner.32 When the pattern emerged, I
welcomed its presence. The symmetry and geometry were reassuring, especially given
the ever-increasing sprawl.
Each section assumed a form as well. The shapes were seldom apparent at first,
and the opening sketches were often based on instinct. For example, at the start of
Section III, the museum needed to earn its place, and the story about the field trip
emerged.33 Bethany revealed a playful side, the catalyst for ―EagleNet,‖ which provides
its own transition to ―YourChildsASlacker.com.‖ The sketches in the novel are linked by
one of two methods: 1) chronology (either a temporal or a spacial sequence); 2) a detail,
32
According to Calvino, ―A work of literature is one of these minimal portions in which the existent
crystallizes into a form, acquires a meaning — not fixed, not definitive, not hardened into a mineral
immobility, but alive as an organism‖ (69-70).
33
The series of astronaut jokes is a tribute to my father, renowned for his terrible puns.
29
line, or image that triggers the following episode. First, the conclusion of ―Southern
Drift‖ is the tale of the snowstorm, which connects to the opening of ―Bored Games.‖
After the vision of the monster squirrel at the end of ―Bored Games,‖ a lesser squirrel
falls from a tree in ―R.O.U.S.? I don‘t think they exist.‖ The return to Armstrong in
―Mission Control‖ completes the loop.34 In addition, the title of the section — ―Leaps of
Flight‖ — provides a controlling image that runs throughout its pages, describing both
form and content.35 Again and again, the concept is introduced: the moon shot, the
squirrels, the cars launching off snow drifts,36 and Dave‘s own bound away from
Midfield.
17. An Evening Performance
By the Spring of 2010, the shape of the book was coming into focus. I still didn‘t realize
how long it would take to return to The Dragon‘s Brew, but I knew that Dave would
awake to find Randy eating his sandwich; that he‘d travel with one or more kayakers to
Parson Branch Road; and that Randy would surprise him at Fontana Dam. In addition, I
could sketch out the route to the summit. It didn‘t seem like much — a few interesting
turns, but not enough to justify the multitude of pages. The payoff seemed meager for
readers that endured, and the title was growing prophetic: the novel had no destination.
34
I have always enjoyed the X-Y axis, its union of mathematics & cartography: I often picture Dave‘s
drive along the highway as travel on the vertical axis, while the lateral progress from image to image is
movement on the horizontal plane. Together, they form an equation that plots the arc of the novel.
According to Gretchen, such a vision is too idiosyncratic to be illuminating.
35
In Lightness, Calvino emphasizes ―the sudden agile leap of the poet-philosopher who raises himself
above the weight of the world‖ (12), but these transitions between sketches also aspire to Quickness —
―above all agility, mobility, and ease, all qualities that go with writing where it is natural to digress, to jump
from one subject to another, to lose the thread a hundred times and to find it again after a hundred more
twists and turns‖ (46).
36
These cars recall the Wheels of Speed from Section I. Baxter discusses ―Rhyming Action‖ in fiction,
which ―often has to do with dramatic repetition, or echo effects.‖ (113).
30
In addition to questioning the plot, I turned a critical eye on the boxed asides. I
tried to consider them ―Narrative Spandrels,‖ dramatic elements that begin as ―byproducts‖ of the fictional structure but are incorporated back into the central design,
adding to its overall effect (Boswell ―Narrative Spandrels‖). But the explanation did not
satisfy. They were far greater tangents than the architectural features that Boswell
describes. I debated the worth of each distraction. After all, John Gardner presents a
compelling case that fiction‘s objective is a ―vivid and continuous dream‖: readers ―must
not be roughly jerked from the dream back to the words on the page‖ (On Becoming a
Novelist 5-6). As he notes, ―a repeatedly interrupted flow of action must necessarily have
less force than an action directly carried through from its beginning to its conclusion‖
(The Art of Fiction 31).
I almost made that brutal cut. Instead, I gambled that I could hold the reader‘s
attention with the spectacle, as long as the diversion was entertaining. In George
Garrett‘s story ―An Evening Performance,‖ an itinerant daredevil offers ―a performance
that defies the laws of nature and science‖ (9). The story acts as a metaphor for the
fiction writer: ―this dive is skill, skill pure and simple,‖ the announcer informs the smalltown audience. ―When Stella climbs that tower and dives into the flames she‘s doing
something anyone could do who has the heart and the skill and the nerve for it‖ (9-10).
The performance is short — a single dive on a single evening — but ―it remained with
them, haunting, a long time afterwards‖ (11). The analogy is not exact, not for a work as
long as The Road to Nowhere. Even so, the tangents were given a stay of execution.
Dave approached Dayton, and Grandpa began his tale of God & Pittsburgh. The
sketch veered into a memory about Mr. Pitts. I liked the effect and labeled it ―Take I.‖
31
Dave‘s Mom was a stubborn character who fascinated me.37 The story about Mr. Pitts
led the narrative to Hocking Hills and Mr. Pete. I was playing by ear. An idea would
spring to mind — deconstructing that saccharine speech to the church — and I tried to
exhaust its possibilities. An image appeared in the distance — the older man rocking on
the porch, a rifle across his lap — and I pushed in that direction.38 It helped to have a
villain on the scene. Mr. Pete was pathetic — a creep and a bully, which masked the
insecurities he harbored — but his presence energized the story.39 Elsewhere, Laura sat
for an interview and challenged her son‘s version of events.40 Once again, Grandpa tried
to speak of Pittsburgh, but David‘s insecurities about salvation were too significant to
ignore. Finally, the third attempt was a success: a hundred page loop, all in an effort to
relate the anecdote.
18. The Perils of Realism
The novel had been scheduled to occur in October 2009. I checked the Ohio sports
calendar and tried to determine when Dave could make his trip — hoping to catch the fall
37
―Every now and then, as I tried to narrate her story, she looked me in the eye and announced, No, you’re
not telling it right — here’s what really happened. They were startling moments, filled with unexpected
revelations.
38
According to E.L. Doctorow, ―writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as
your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way‖ (qtd. in Lamott 18). Which sounds good,
though I‘d prefer to have a map.
O‘Connor also notes the instinctive nature of a tale‘s creation: ―The more stories I write, the more
mysterious I find the process and the less I find myself capable of analyzing it‖ (87).
39
Evil creates ―tension and imbalance.‖ Without it, there is ―a kind of muddiness, characters with a static
sensitivity, a case of viral ennui that is never realized in dramatic action‖ (Neville 34-35).
40
The dissertation‘s subtitle, ―Sketches in Search of a Novel,‖ is both an acknowledgement of its
patchwork nature and an allusion to Luigi Pirandello‘s Six Characters in Search of an Author, in which
characters arrive at the theater and dispute the manner in which they‘re portrayed.
The title The Road to Nowhere is a reference to an unfinished road that juts into the heart of the Smokies.
Dave does not visit this abandoned project, but he and Randy discuss it. The phrase also contains any
number of puns about hiking, writing, and the dissertation itself.
32
color, but adhering to the OHSAA soccer season. I decided to visit the trail and take
photographs for the dissertation, pictures that would run along the margin of a sketch.41
A notion struck my fancy: what if the photos came from the actual date that Dave visited
the tower? Readers could witness the setting at the precise moment that he arrives. But
the concept arrived too late. I didn‘t get to the trail until the first week of November, and
the JV season had already ended. So I pushed Dave‘s quest to 2010.
I forgot to account for divine intervention. On Wednesday, June 16, I received a
text from Andy Jameson: ―Did u see that tar pits jesus was struck by lightning and went
up in flames? Made me think of you.‖ A bolt of lightning had pierced the Savior‘s hand,
starting a fire that engulfed the statue. The Catch-22 was absurd. To get the pictures I
wanted, the novel had to occur in 2010; for Tar Pits Jesus to be intact, it had to take place
in 2009. I might have abandoned my commitment to precision. After all, I had altered
Ohio‘s geography to include Midfield. But I was stubborn and bemoaned my fate.
Elsewhere, a rockslide had closed a portion of US 129 that Dave needed to use. I spent a
few anxious weeks on the TDOT website, hoping that construction was on schedule, and
I started to worry that acts of God would prevent the novel‘s completion. Eventually, I
acknowledged the obvious truth: the story was more interesting with the effigy
destroyed.42
In October 2010, I returned to Shuckstack on two occasions. The weather was
great, and I took hundreds of photographs. On the second visit, I was disturbed at the
state of the room. At some point in the previous decade, the trap door had been removed.
41
42
Like the vertical line of snapshots on the cover, designed to resemble a roll of film.
I would like to believe that I‘m the only student in the history of Park Hall who was forced to re-write a
chapter of his dissertation because a giant statue of Jesus was struck by lightning.
33
In other words, it was no longer possible for Dave to seal himself in the tower. I would
have to change the ending of the novel.43 Back on the ground, rewriting the conclusion in
my mind, I saw what needed to happen: our hero would descend the mountain in the
dark. . . .
Which is how I found myself on the lower slopes of Shuckstack, facing an animal
that was not pleased at the intrusion. I dug the headlamp from the pack and aimed it at
the switchback. All I could see was the reflection from the eyes, a few feet off the
ground. I banged my trekking poles together and sang part of a song. The bear refused
to budge. I did not want to linger, and I wasn‘t about to turn my back. So I chose the
route of least resistance — an ankle-jarring, off-trail scramble to a lower section of the
path.
I still believe in fidelity to landscape. But I‘ve learned my lesson. I now
understand the perils. In certain situations, especially when predators are involved, a
slight shortcut is acceptable. The writer targets an impossible task, but he keeps his wits
about him, always prepared to improvise that dramatic, last-second escape.44
43
For several years, I had envisioned Randy returning — deus ex machina — to rescue Dave from the
tower, subverting the familiar trope from fairy tales. According to Anne Lamott, a change of plans is
natural: ―you have a sort of temporary destination, perhaps a scene that you envision as the climax . . . but
when you get there, or close, you see that because of all you‘ve learned about your characters along the
way, it no longer works‖ (85).
44
In ―Hanging from the Trestle While the Train Goes By: Some Notes on Working for a Living,‖ George
Garrett describes an uncle who ―was often caught walking the tracks by a freight train and forced to hang
from a crosstie while the train rattled overhead. Garrett sees that as an apt image for an artist, literary or
otherwise — the artist as comic and entertainer who is getting where he has to go the best way he knows
how‖ (Wier xxii).
34
19. The Hound of Heaven & the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man
If I hadn‘t been so stressed, I might have found the irony amusing: I was drowning in
―Flood,‖ a section marked by burial in water. Positioned at the center of the novel, the
vortex of images and fragments is a chaotic reflection of Dave‘s psychological state. His
defenses unravel, leading to the decision to lie down on the interstate — a form of
surrender, and one of his most exposed moments. The combination of linear movement
and lateral imagery is still observable, along with echoes and rhyming patterns: for
example, the scene of Dave prone on the highway (―Children of the Covenant‖) recalls
details from the Shady Grove lawn (―Recluse: Reprise‖). But I will not dissect Sections
V-VII, not here. Many of the sketches were composed in recent months, and I have not
attained the distance for a cogent analysis.
Instead, consider an image that recurs in these sections, uniting a layer of the
novel. First and foremost, Gordon and Randy are autonomous characters. But they are
also — taken in combination with Tar Pits Jesus — a re-imagining of the entity that
Francis Thompson called the Hound of Heaven, a divine pursuit that refuses to release its
victims. This idea has always troubled me, the same anxiety that I get about Reformed
teachings on Predestination and Irresistible Grace. The inexorable nature of the hunter
has an ominous quality. In addition, the picture of Tar Pits Jesus rising from the earth to
chase Dave along the highway is a descendant of the vision that haunts Hazel Motes in
Wise Blood: ―he saw Jesus move from tree to tree in the back of his mind, a wild ragged
figure motioning him to turn around and come off into the dark where he was not sure of
his footing, where he might be walking on the water and not know it and then suddenly
35
know it and drown‖ (16).45 The metaphor of the hunt is even present in ―Fishers of
Men,‖ the rhythm that Dave and Randy pound on their chests in the closing scene.
Wounded, caught for the final time, Dave throws himself into the song. I am not offering
a specific message, and the moment is not an epiphany. If anything, it evokes what
O‘Connor describes as ―some action, some gesture of a character that is unlike any other
in the story, one which indicates where the real heart of the story lies . . . that [transcends]
any near allegory that might have been intended or any pat moral categories a reader
could make . . . a gesture which somehow [makes] contact with mystery‖ (111). I am
merely stretching — in my own feeble way — for the vision that E.M. Forster describes
at the conclusion of ―Pattern and Rhythm‖:
Expansion. That is the idea the novelist must cling to. Not completion.
Not rounding off but opening out. When the symphony is over we feel
that the notes and tunes composing it have been liberated, they have found
in the rhythm of the whole their individual freedom. Cannot the novel be
like that? Is not there something of it in War and Peace? — the book with
which we began and in which we must end. Such an untidy book. Yet, as
we read it, do not great chords begin to sound behind us, and when we
have finished does not every item — even the catalogue of strategies —
lead a larger existence than was possible at the time? (169)
20. I‘m Going to Disney World: The Novel as Amusement Park
On the plane to Orlando, flying to the interview at Rollins, I lamented my hypocrisy.
After all, at some point on my visit, I was bound to describe the novel as a trail guide and
mention the influence of Peter Turchi. But Turchi emphasizes the ―blank of the
intentionally omitted,‖ because ―virtually everything is left off of a map — and must be
for a map to be useful‖ (―The Writer as Cartographer‖ 162, 164). As he notes, ―we must
45
I shouldn‘t get carried away: the image also contains elements from Terminator and Ghostbusters.
36
not confuse authority with objectivity or dedication to ‗reality,‘‖ for ―the most accurate
map, and the most detailed map, is not necessarily the best map‖ (165). The map I had
created in The Road to Nowhere was a blatant affront to such aesthetics. It tried to
include everything, and the reader was buried in an avalanche of scenes, memories, and
random nonsense. I thought of the best maps to Shuckstack: basic, sparse, and useful,
they highlighted the essential information. I was a fraud. If I had sketched that route, the
drawing would stretch the length of a room, and no sensible hiker would add it to her
pack.
I glanced out the window and down at the landscape: clusters of homes in tightlypacked subdivisions, offset by swampland with little development. I thought about the
theme parks of Orlando and tried to envision their layout from the air. The revelation
was sudden. The Road to Nowhere would never move from the trailhead to the summit in
a swift and efficient manner. It wasn‘t that kind of a map. Instead, I recalled those visits
to Kings Island, the sprawling, chaotic map you received at the entrance. It wasn‘t
designed to usher you from point A to point B. It overwhelmed you with options — you
could explore Coney Mall, Rivertown, or Hanna-Barbera™ Land, whatever section
grabbed your interest. Visitors attempt to hit each attraction, but they are free to skip the
occasional sideshow.46 They can always return and catch the rides they missed.
21. Writing Like Weasels
In The Writing Life, Annie Dillard cautions against restraint:
46
Note the distinction from John Barth‘s ―Lost in the Funhouse.‖ A funhouse is based on disorientation
and claustrophobia, whereas I envision a continuous expansion — a novel that never stops adding new
rides and attractions.
37
One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it,
play it, lose it all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good
for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it
now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the
signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something
better. These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water. The
impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it
is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes
lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes. (597)
In The Road to Nowhere, I‘ve listened to her advice. The work is a vast repository, a
drunk tank for any number of tics, obsessions, and idiosyncrasies. I‘ve tried to say yes,
yes, yes, and welcome, cramming scene after scene into the manuscript. When ideas,
characters, and images knocked at the door and asked to be included, I waved them onto
the bus. I knelt in the sand and constructed the most elaborate castle that I could imagine,
ignoring a growing conviction that many of my favorite turrets and porticoes would never
survive the onrushing tide.
In ―Living Like Weasels,‖ Dillard advises her readers ―to grasp your one
necessity and not let it go, to dangle from it limp wherever it takes you. . . . Seize it and
let it seize you up aloft even, till your eyes burn out and drop‖ (16). My fingers are
cramped, my eyes bloodshot. At night I collapse into bed. I begin to comprehend
Dillard‘s point. This morning, I actually referred to Gretchen as Dave. ―After verbal
sensitivity, accuracy of eye, and a measure of the special intelligence of the storyteller,
what the writer probably needs most is an almost daemonic compulsiveness,‖ according
to John Gardner. ―No novelist is hurt (at least as a writer) by a natural inclination to go to
extremes, driving himself too hard, dissatisfied with himself and the world around him
and driven to improve on both if he can‖ — ―One has to be just a little crazy to write a
great novel‖ (On Becoming a Novelist 56, 62). Compulsiveness? Check. Extremes?
38
Count the pages, and note the encounter with the bear. Driving himself too hard? Crazy?
Gretchen has a few thoughts on those subjects.
Let‘s be honest. The draft is still a mess. Yet Michael Martone might approve.
In ―Ruining a Story,‖ he celebrates works with a ―quality of clutter . . . a littered
landscape of parts of things‖ (198). ―I would urge you to resist that impulse in yourself
that urges you to get the thing perfect,‖ he says. ―Proceed comfortably knowing that
things, no matter how much you handle them, will not fall exactly into place,‖ but that
―one flawed sputtering attempt after another . . . can accumulate into a whole junkyard of
wrecked vehicles that attest to what it is you were driving at‖ (207).47 What was I driving
at, anyway? I wasn‘t. Dave was. The author is simply the hitchhiker, pleased to be
invited on the ride.
I won‘t lie. The recent weeks have felt bittersweet. I‘m proud of the pages that
I‘ve finished, and I‘m excited about the novel‘s future. But I can‘t help thinking about
the half-completed scenes, the miles I‘ve yet to compose. Writing this introduction, I‘ve
tried to spot months that I could have worked faster: an additional section might be done,
or that excess growth restrained. Was the design too ambitious? Did I stretch too far?
At what point did I cross the line?
I‘ll take solace from Calvino: ―Overambitious projects may be objectionable in
many fields, but not in literature. Literature remains alive only if we set ourselves
immeasurable goals, far beyond all hope of achievement. Only if poets and writers set
themselves tasks that no one else dares imagine will literature continue to have a
47
Calvino also celebrates works that ―are unfinished or left as fragments, like the ruins of ambitious
projects that nevertheless retain traces of the splendor and meticulous care with which they were
conceived.‖ In these creations, ―the least thing is seen as the center of a network of relationships that the
writer cannot restrain himself from following, multiplying the details so that his descriptions and
digressions become infinite‖ (106-107).
39
function‖ (112). This claim seems too grand for my little sketches, of course. At their
core — when all of the nonsense is winnowed away — they‘re simply a tale about
slipping out for a walk.
22. Six Memos for the Next Revision
After Calvino
Consistency (Summer 2011):
My immediate task involves polishing the current draft for submission to the Graduate
School: adjusting the layout to satisfy the formatting gods, cutting images with copyright
issues, & eliminating details that target the work‘s initial audience — a foursome
comprised of Gretchen, Reg, Judith, and Doug — but not the general population.
Multiplicity (Fall, Spring, & Summer, 2011-2012):
Over the next year, I plan to expand the summaries of Sections VII-IX into a fully
realized draft, one section each season. I‘ve abandoned my original design for the Bonus
Features, but I still intend to pitch them as content for the novel‘s web site.
Visibility (Fall 2012):
A range of themes and motifs should emerge, patterns that grow apparent in the final
sections. Many of them will be curiosities, their impact ephemeral. But a few will
deserve additional attention, and I will shade them in greater relief.
Quickness (Spring 2013):
My efforts will turn to carving the prose, cutting out scenes that do not belong.
According to Gardner, ―If a young writer is to achieve intellectual and emotional
40
significance in his fiction, he must have the common sense to tell foolish ideas from
interesting ones, and important emotions from trivial ones‖ (On Becoming a Novelist 55).
Entire sketches may disappear, though not every discursive element. ―This apologia for
quickness does not presume to deny the pleasures of lingering,‖ says Calvino. ―In
literature, time is a form of wealth to be spent at leisure and with detachment. We do not
have to be first past a predetermined finish line. On the contrary, saving time is a good
thing because the more time we save, the more we can afford to lose‖ (46). To retain the
essential tangents, the lesser excursions will be eliminated. To keep readers engaged on
the detours, momentum is needed to carry the loop.
Lightness (Summer 2013):
Calvino claims that his ―working method has more often than not involved the
subtraction of weight,‖ especially ―from the structure of stories and from language‖ (3). I
shall follow his lead.
Exactitude (Fall 2013):
The final stage in revising the novel will involve Exactitude, which Calvino describes as
―1) a well-defined and well-calculated plan for the work in question; 2) an evocation of
clear, incisive, memorable visual images . . . ; 3) a language as precise as possible both in
choice of words and in expression of the subtleties of thought and imagination‖ (55-56).
Each of these facets involves one last return to the previous steps.
— Noble intentions, Forsythe. How about some concrete objectives?
Fair enough. Multiplicity & Visibility: Finish the complete draft by next summer,
resulting in a manuscript of 600+ pages. Quickness: Some of the cuts will be obvious,
41
such as the rant about the RIAA and passages in ―Flood.‖ Others will take discernment.
A few Blount County Snapshots will probably need to go. A practical goal involves a
20% reduction to the manuscript by Summer 2013. Lightness & Exactitude: Each of
these stages should trim the manuscript an additional 10%, condensing the novel to 400
pages by the end of 2013. At that point, I‘ll start sending it to agents.
23. What Was It Like, Writing a Novel?
Some of the days were rough. I understood Dillard‘s despair:
I was too young to be living at a desk. Many fine people were out there
living, people whose consciences permitted them to sleep at night
despite their not having written a decent sentence that day, or ever. (The
Writing Life 581)
But there were good days as well, when I recalled her description of tackle football:
Best, you got to throw yourself mightily at someone‘s running legs.
Either you brought him down or you hit the ground flat out on your chin,
with your arms empty before you. It was all or nothing. If you hesitated
in fear, you would miss and get hurt: you would take a hard fall while
the kid got away, or you would get kicked in the face while the kid got
away. But if you flung yourself wholeheartedly at the back of his knees
— if you gathered and joined body and soul and pointed them diving
fearlessly — then you likely wouldn‘t get hurt, and you‘d stop the ball.
(An American Childhood 317)
On the good days, I flung myself wholeheartedly at the book. As I clung to the legs of
the story, it carried me places I did not expect. More often than not, I limped from Park
Hall to the truck.
On the good days, I lived out her claims about focus:
There was joy in concentration, and the world afforded an inexhaustible
wealth of projects to concentrate on. There was joy in effort, and the
world resisted effort to just the right degree, and yielded to it at last.
(382-383)
On the good days, I knew exactly how she felt, racing along that Pittsburgh street:
42
I was running down the Penn Avenue sidewalk, revving up for an act of
faith. I was conscious and self-conscious. I knew well that people could
not fly — as well as anyone knows it — but I also knew the kicker: that,
as the books put it, with faith all things are possible.
Just once I wanted a task that required all the joy I had. Day
after day I had noticed that if I waited long enough, my strong
unexpressed joy would dwindle and dissipate inside me, over many
hours, like a fire subsiding, and I would at last calm down. Just this
once I wanted to let it rip. (383)
On the good days, the words stretched like a trail to a distant mountain.
All I had to do was follow.
24. Shelter Log
Anderson, Sherwood. Winesburg, Ohio. New York: Penguin, 1919.
Baxter, Charles. Burning Down the House: Essays on Fiction. Saint Paul, MN:
Graywolf, 1997.
Baxter, Charles and Peter Turchi. ―Introduction.‖ Bringing the Devil to His Knees: The
Craft of Fiction and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and Peter Turchi. Ann
Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2001. 1-6.
Boswell, Robert. ―Narrative Spandrels.‖ Bringing the Devil to His Knees: The Craft of
Fiction and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and Peter Turchi. Ann Arbor:
The University of Michigan Press, 2001. 138-147.
Calvino, Italo. Six Memos for the Next Millennium. New York: Vintage: 1988.
Cofer, Judith Ortiz. ―Taking the Macho.‖ Woman in Front of the Sun: On Becoming a
Writer. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2000. 63-72.
Dillard, Annie. An American Childhood. In Three by Annie Dillard. New York:
HarperPerennial, 1987. 261-542.
Dillard, Annie. ―Living Like Weasels.‖ Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and
Encounters. New York: Harper & Row, 1982. 11-16.
Dillard, Annie. The Writing Life. In Three by Annie Dillard. New York:
HarperPerennial, 1989. 543-617.
Forster, E.M. Aspects of the Novel. San Diego: Harcourt, 1927.
43
Franklin, Benjamin. The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin. 2nd ed. New Haven:
Yale UP, 1964.
Gardner, John. On Becoming a Novelist. New York: Harper & Row, 1983.
Garrett, George. ―An Evening Performance.‖ An Evening Performance: New and
Selected Stories. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State UP, 1985. 3-12.
Hribal, C.J. ―The Scene Breast Is Hungry.‖ Bringing the Devil to His Knees: The Craft
of Fiction and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and Peter Turchi. Ann
Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2001. 148-161.
Lamott, Anne. bird by bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. New York:
Doubleday, 1994.
L‘Engle, Madeleine. Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. Colorado
Springs: WaterBrook, 1980.
Martone, Michael. ―Ruining a Story.‖ Bringing the Devil to His Knees: The Craft of
Fiction and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and Peter Turchi. Ann Arbor:
The University of Michigan Press, 2001. 197-208.
Neville, Susan. ―Where‘s Iago?‖ Bringing the Devil to His Knees: The Craft of Fiction
and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and Peter Turchi. Ann Arbor: The
University of Michigan Press, 2001. 31-44.
O‘Connor, Flannery. Mystery and Manners. Eds. Sally and Robert Fitzgerald. New
York: Farrar, Straus, & Giroux, 1969.
O‘Connor, Flannery. Wise Blood. In Three by Flannery O’Connor. New York: Signet,
1949. 7-126.
Of Fiction and Faith: Twelve American Writers Talk about Their Vision and Work. Ed.
W. Dale Brown. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 1997.
Shepard, Jim. ―I Know Myself Real Well. That‘s the Problem.‖ Bringing the Devil to
His Knees: The Craft of Fiction and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and
Peter Turchi. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2001. 18-30.
Turchi, Peter. ―The Writer as Cartographer.‖ Bringing the Devil to His Knees: The Craft
of Fiction and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and Peter Turchi. Ann
Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2001. 162-179.
Wier, Allen. ―Skin and Bones: George Garrett‘s Living Spirits.‖ Bad Man Blues: A
Portable George Garrett. Dallas: Southern Methodist UP, 1998. xii-xxv.
44
THE ROAD TO NOWHERE: SKETCHES IN SEARCH OF A NOVEL
The Road to Nowhere
Sketches in Search of a Novel
Matt Forsythe
Trillium photograph by Gretchen Forsythe. Unless noted, all photographs in the dissertation are by
Matthew Forsythe. Maps of the Smoky Mountains are from the U.S. National Park Service
(www.nps.gov.grsm); maps of Tennessee are from the Tennessee Department of Transportation
(www.tdot.state.tn.us.maps); maps of Ohio are from the Ohio Department of Transportation
(www.dot.state.oh.us.maps); and maps of Kentucky are from the Kentucky Transportation Cabinet
(www.planning.kytc.ky.gov.maps.asp).
45
Prelude: Fontana Dam
The Spillway unrolled like a giant tongue. Its concrete shaft bore into the earth.
Dave had already stopped at its tip, which emerged from the hillside to lap at the waters
of the Little Tennessee. Now he gazed at its gaping maw from above. It reminded him
of a missile silo, but it might also be a burrow, the colossal den of a nocturnal beast. At
his back, the sounds from the flagpole sharpened this ominous note. The U.S. flag and a
blue banner with the letters TVA snapped like gunshots in gusts of wind off Lake
Fontana.
The sky was clear. Shuckstack loomed in the distance. Its slopes were already
turning brown, but patches of foliage remained. Travelling along the The Dragon had
been like driving through a watercolor, the autumn splendor on the border of Tennessee
and North Carolina. Dave‘s stomach began to clench, just thinking about those turns. He
had left most of his breakfast on Highway 129, after Karl whipped around Parsons Curve
and pulled the Ranger to an unexpected stop. He wondered how Karl was doing, off on
that madcap journey of his own. It struck him as odd — how a stranger could wander
into your life, speak a few lines, and then disappear.
From a certain angle, Shuckstack possessed a double peak, but that wasn‘t
actually the case. According to Grandpa, the initial summit was Little Shuckstack. It
was closer to the dam, its profile sharp. The knob to its left, distant and subdued? That
was the true summit. A small box sat over the treeline: the observation room of an
46
abandoned fire tower, and his ultimate destination. If the breeze was this strong at the
dam, how fierce were the winds at the peak? The stairwell to the chamber was open and
exposed.
The mountain was not extreme, not even for Appalachia. A touch over four
thousand feet, nothing like Clingman‘s Dome or Mount LeConte, behemoths to the east.
Yet the location was dramatic. Its slopes rose from the water to guard the southwest
border of the park. The trailhead was a mile away, and the path itself was short — less
than four miles to the summit. It was steep, over two thousand feet of vertical ascent, but
those numbers seemed insignificant, given the miles that lay at Dave‘s back.
At the top of the spillway were flood gates. Dave envisioned a robotic face within
their chains and gears. The barriers could be raised, unleashing a torrent. Not that any
release would be needed today. The surface was well below full pool. A band of
exposed dirt now bordered the lake and circumscribed each island.
He stared back at the pit and quickly pulled away. The concrete wall was only a
few feet high, and a steel rail extended the protection. It didn‘t seem like enough, given
this public location. Suppose a child wandered out of the visitor center and pulled
himself onto the lip, seeking a more direct view. Dave peered across the edge, fighting
the vertigo. The drop would be several stories, and the pitch of the concrete floor was
steep. If you somehow survived that initial impact, you would tumble and slide, your
speed constantly increasing, and be swallowed in the stomach of the dam.
A single, stupid leap. That‘s all it would take. Surrender to the temptation, and
he wouldn‘t have to worry about meeting with Stratham . . . returning to Midfield before
he was missed . . . what he should do with the ring in his pack. All of his choices would
47
be rendered moot, absolved in that final act. But he wouldn‘t jump. He didn‘t have that
kind of nerve. He envisioned the arc that a diamond would follow, flung into that hole.
Would you hear its faint plink as it struck the spillway and disappeared? But destroying
the ring would accomplish nothing. The decision would remain. In a few weeks, he‘d
find himself back at the jewelry store — a thousand dollars down, and hunting for a
replacement.
Dave raised his gaze to Shuckstack and greeted it like an old friend. The
mountain was stoic. If it recognized him, it offered no sign in return. He tried to be
happy. After all his rash choices the previous night, not to mention that morning‘s delay
at The Dragon‘s Brew, he had almost managed to keep on schedule. He could still reach
the peak and return home on time. Yet he sensed a growing concern. The closer he got,
the harder it was to know why he had come.
The footsteps left the grass and moved across the sidewalk. By the time Dave
heard them, it was far too late to react. The weight of a body slammed into his back, and
strong, gangly arms locked him within their vice. A man was shouting in his ear. Dave
felt himself tip forward, his chest pushed over the rail. The mouth of the spillway opened
to receive him. He sucked in his breath and braced himself for the fall.
.
48
Overture: East Tennessee
After it passes Maryville, breaking free of the Foothills Mall, US 411 enters the
open country. It follows the rail lines south, past rural towns and county seats. A
vanishing culture lingers. Drive-in restaurants maintain their local clientele, and roadside
motels announce vacant rooms. They boast color TVs and modest, rectangular pools.
Other routes parallel the highway‘s course: US 11, TN 68, US 27. They pull to
the southwest, deferring to the geography — the valley of the Tennessee River, which
pries the Cumberland Plateau from the Southern Appalachians.
The waters have been usurped. An interstate cuts the basin in two, channeling
tourists along its asphalt stream. They pause on their voyage to Orlando, halfway to their
destination, and refill their tanks and cupholders — taking comfort in the familiar chains
that have clustered about each exit.
Further to the east, a stream of travelers is led astray. Billboards guide them to
Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge — to Dollywood, the Comedy Barn, the Dixie Stampede.
49
Standing atop the Pulpit, high on the Bull Head Trail to Mount LeConte, pilgrims look
down into Vanity Fair. The miles of go-cart tracks, waterslides, and putt-putt golf.
The righteous scorn the spectacle. They shake their trekking poles and rant at the
parking lots and roads: the trench works that besiege the national park. In their anger,
they overlook the unexpected service from this vast labyrinth of outlet shopping and
musical theaters. Like the Great Wall of China, it restrains the barbarian horde —
ensnaring the wave of traffic, diluting its power at the last, critical instant.
Even so, ten million visitors flood the park every year: loving the mountains to
death. They queue at the trail to Laurel Falls, mass at the summit of Clingman‘s Dome,
and crowd the route to the Chimney Tops. Even Townsend — ―The Peaceful Side of the
Smokies‖ — is overrun. Minivans idle for hours on the Cades Cove Loop, and legions of
neon tubes drift along the Little River.
50
Yet the first hard rise can bring solitude. A resistance moves on foot, threading
the paths to remote campsites, isolated peaks, and streams that flow under bowers of
rhododendron.
They stride into the backcountry, the vast watersheds of Eagle, Hazel, and Forney
Creeks. Fly rods in hands, their packs laden with supplies, they enter the forest and
disappear.
51
Review Problem – Overture
Algebra I – Mr. Kingman
Homework – November 10
Name: _____________________________
Suppose Gary leaves Midfield, Ohio, at 11 PM on a Thursday night. He drives south at
70 mph. After he passes Maryville, Tennessee (410 miles from Midfield), he travels
slower on the curving, mountain highways – averaging one third his original speed. At
Fontana Dam (50 miles from Maryville) he begins climbing the Appalachian Trail to the
summit of Shuckstack Mountain. The path is steep but short, gaining 2500 feet of
elevation in 4½ miles.
1. Assume that Gary hikes 2½ miles per hour. What is his average speed for the trip?
2. If Gary takes twelve hours of breaks (sleep, snacks, unanticipated delays), what time
will he return to Midfield? Can he arrive home by 11 AM on Saturday?
A – Midfield
B – Maryville
C – Fontana Dam
D – Shuckstack
A
B
D
C
AB = 410 Miles
BC = 50 Miles
CD = 4.5 Miles
52
SECTION I: THE DRAGON’S BREW
In which we encounter a teacher of mathematics.
Suspect Driving — A math teacher with a problem — The parent prayer chain — Close
encounters with the USPS — Mailbox Baseball — The Coldwater incident — A want of
shenanigans — On vandalism — Scenic Overlook — Piss off, Deacon — The naming of
churches — Guerrilla worship — A Toast to the Roast — The French Broad — The
Wheels of Speed — Review Problem, Section I
To Maryville
US Highway 411
US Highway 129
Dave
Chilhowee
Mountain
The Dragon‘s Brew
●
Little Tennessee River
LENGTH: 5.2 miles, extending from Dave‘s near wreck on US 129 to his arrival at The
Dragon‘s Brew. Side trails provide views of Chilhowee mountain. Optional loops
include the ―Food for Thought‖ column from The Blount County Register
HIGHLIGHTS: The locals at The Dragon‘s Brew.
CAUTIONS: Distracted driving, overwrought self-analysis.
TRAILHEAD: US Highway 129, 10.4 miles south of Maryville, Tennessee.
53
Suspect Driving
Friday Morning, 8:35 AM
October 15, 2010
―Do not withhold good from those who deserve it, not when you have the power
to act.‖ Dave added the reference as a bookend — ―Proverbs 3:27‖ — standard
procedure when quoting verses at Midfield Christian. His foot eased off the gas pedal.
In the distance, the far side of a sweeping turn, a vehicle had pulled off the road —
parked in a shallow ditch that bordered the rural highway. Weeds hid the tires on the
passenger side, and the hazard lights were blinking.
He considered his duty to stop, resisting the sense of obligation. He was a
stranger in the land, not the Good Samaritan. The ram appeared in the thicket, and the
life of Isaac was spared. If the motorist needed aid, God would provide the relief: a
more capable helper than Dave, whose knowledge of cars stopped at AAA.
His truck coasted past the maroon SUV. The driver was crouched at the front
bumper, aiming her camera at a barbed wire fence. A tan heifer had thrust its head
between the strands and was foraging along the berm. In the background, the pasture
rose at a sharp pitch. Boulders jutted from the earth, exposed by the soil‘s erosion.
Dave resumed speed. He exhaled a prayer of thanks, relieved but ashamed. He
would have stopped for a wreck, he reasoned, for a flat tire or a busted engine. Hadn‘t he
slowed, searching for a convenient place to stop?
A touch of guilt lingered. He recalled the lesson from yesterday‘s chapel:
ignoring a chance to help others was passive sin, no better than the celebrated, proactive
54
forms of transgression. A sin of o-mission, rather than co-mmission. It revealed your
pride — that ancient curse — a selfish, callous devotion to your personal agenda. The
cult of the Day Planner, according to the speaker.
The road settled into a rhythm: left, straight, right, straight. A periodic curve that
entered the foothills, the southeast corner of the Smoky Mountains.
Brake, accelerate, coast, repeat. Dave yawned and shook his head. He tried to
keep awake.
First period would be underway, Algebra I. The students were solving review
problems. Their effort would be half-hearted, following their teacher‘s cue. Garbage In,
Garbage Out — the programmer‘s maxim also fit education.
Dave phoned in the lesson at seven that morning, from a rest area at the
Tennessee border — over four hundred miles from the exercise on polynomials that he‘d
assigned. He worried about the interstate in the background, afraid downshifting semis
might rouse suspicion. But Kim, the Assistant Secretary at MCA, had noted the
instructions without question, the same way she‘d taken the message that he was sick.
―Drink plenty of fluids,‖ she advised. ―I‘ll call a substitute, and Cheryl will add you to
the prayer requests on the morning announcements.‖
The initial queries should have arrived, the red light flashing on the answering
machine at his apartment. Beth would hope he was feeling better. She‘d offer to bring
him medicine and food. A curt message from Principal Stratham would bump their
appointment to early next week. He‘d want to address some business — that incident at
the Coldwater game — as soon as possible.
55
Dave had ignored his cell phone as he passed Knoxville. When it buzzed a
second time, he powered it down to preserve the battery.
Emails would pepper his inbox: get-well wishes from colleagues and the parent
prayer chain, questions about practice from his captains, and a request from a concerned
Geometry scholar — Bill Holcomb, most likely — that Monday‘s test be postponed,
―given the circumstances.‖
The truck crossed the centerline, and Dave corrected his drift. ―Given the
circumstances,‖ he thought. Too many miles to Fontana Dam, and not enough hours to
cross them. Forty-five minutes of sleep at that truck stop in northern Kentucky, another
hour at the rest area.
He was exhausted, hungry, and pissed about last night‘s delay.
Dave emerged from the S-curve as the USPS hatchback resumed its route. He
spotted the flashing lights, but the distance closed faster than he anticipated. The chance
to brake vanished.
He swung the Ranger to the opposite side of the road, praying the oncoming
hairpin was clear. A white blur swept past him on the right. Torque pulled on the truck‘s
rear, threatening to whip the empty bed about the fulcrum of the engine block. Dave held
the wheel firm.
56
USPS
Dave Kingman
8:37:14
8:37:18
8:37:22
The danger passed. As the postal carrier laid on the horn, Dave gunned the motor
and fled the scene. Back in the proper lane, he raised an arm to acknowledge the blame.
But the car had disappeared. Pulled to the side, most likely — calling the police to report
the suspect driver, a menace along the rural trace.
No, Dave assured himself, the worker had simply resumed delivery — the
catalogues and credit cards for the citizens of Tennessee.
Rain, snow, sleet, and douchebags: nothing stops the mail.
A racing heart belied his cool demeanor. You aren‘t fooling nobody, he thought.
That scared the crap out of you.
At least he was awake.
57
Mailbox Baseball
Friday Morning, 8:40 AM
October 15, 2010
Dave scanned the sides of the road, on the lookout for agents of the US Postal
Service. Each cluster of boxes bristled with ambush. Metal poles supported the oldest
units, their dented shells perched near sylvan farms or decrepit trailers. At one driveway,
next to a privet hedge that stretched the entire lawn, a wooden post had been snapped in
two.
Which explained the iron gates on the newest drives — not to mention the brick
armor that encased their mail. The daunting shells that protected the Mastercard bill from
the young gods who roamed this landscape in their F150s and Silverados, driven by
boredom and fueled with bottles of Jack.
He passed a novel construction: no post, simply a steel box mounted onto a
boulder, nestled against a rock shelf. Dave grimaced. He envisioned the drunken swing,
the crash of aluminum bat on stone. Not that a broken wrist would deter them, the teens
who raised hell in these hollows. Not if his sister‘s stories had been typical, those years
Rachel lived in Tennessee with Mom. You don‘t think about the emergency room when
you‘re smashed-ass drunk.
The collision shot into the bone, shattering the radius and carpus. He had
gathered the lingo from Ryan‘s parents. His own arm flared in empathy.
58
His keeper would be home from the hospital, provided the surgery had gone well.
Kids‘ bodies are resilient. Dave planned to call that afternoon, to promote the nowuseless goalie to junior assistant coach for Saturday‘s showdown with Midfield Catholic.
He would touch base at Fontana, before he entered the woods and lost reception.
Dave had been banned from the sideline, given events at Tuesday‘s match. He
could review strategy with his players — provided they gathered on the practice field.
But he could not lead the team into the stadium, not until Stratham completed his inquiry.
He felt little desire to dwell on the episode: the bush league strike by the
Coldwater forward, the horrific crack from his keeper‘s arm. Dave could recall his anger
as the ambulance left the field, but not the specific events that followed. The argument
with the rival coach, his mounting fury, the parents shouting in the stands, and the hapless
punch that hit nothing but air. A pitiful swing that led to his ejection, the reprimand from
the OHSAA, and the interview with Stratham that loomed in his future.
The past two days had been filled with hearsay. He ignored the rumors about his
punishment: removal from coaching duties, probation and counseling, even termination.
Such nonchalance troubled Bethany. She volunteered to solicit support, drafting a
petition that players and parents could sign, but he vetoed the scheme.
Resolution would come. The chat with Stratham would be unpleasant, and it
would narrow the range of consequences, but there would be no meeting today. Not two
states to the south, the trees thickening at the sides of the road.
Besides, even a principal had rules to follow at Midfield Christian. Stratham
could make a teacher‘s life miserable — a penance of committee work and
extracurricular duties — but he couldn‘t fire them. To offer or terminate a contract, you
59
needed a quorum from the school board, and two of its members golfed with Dave‘s
Grandfather. In addition, the Superintendent held final say on all personnel decisions.
Anderson liked Dave. He knew little about his teaching abilities, but he loved it when
grads returned home to join the faculty. It matched his concept of legacy.
Dave sidetracked himself with calculations: the force of a bat on a mailbox, the
velocity of its head amplified by the speed of the truck. Now that was a math problem, a
world apart from the laughable tasks he assigned. You would have to account for the
structural integrity of the target, not to mention the hitter‘s stance and the angle of
impact. You would have to show your work. You needed to follow through.
= v1 = Truck Velocity
= v2 = Bat Speed
v12 = v1 + v2 = Velocity at Impact
Linear Momentum = Mass * Velocity ( p = mv )
F = dp/dt = d(mv)/dt. Or, in a constant-mass system, F = m (dv/dt) = ma
―Mutationem motus proportionalem esse vi motrici impressae,
et fieri secundum lineam rectam qua vis illa imprimitur.‖
Lex II, Sir Isaac Newton
The problem deserved an audience. The vectors were too marvelous for an
assignment or a classroom example — even for an exam. They demanded a public
hearing. A science fair project, with a thorough investigation into all the possible
60
variables: the box, the vehicle, the swing. Even the composition of the weapon:
aluminum for the upstart, wood for the old school.
His students lacked the drive to complete such a task. A few possessed the
intelligence — Amber Jackson or Christopher Lopez — but delinquency was beyond
their grasp. A parent would halt the experiment, wary of blights on their darling‘s record.
No, their studies would be respectable: Amber would test the coffee grounds that created
the most efficient compost, while Chris flew balsa wood airplanes in a homemade wind
tunnel.
Neither would fulfill his grand vision: tables in the gymnasium lined with displays
that were truly practical. The perfect weight of a TP roll, adjusted for humidity, tree
height and limb size. The ideal proportions of a potato gun. The optimal design for a
giant slingshot — its surgical tubing adapted to the projectile, whether shaving cream
balloons or G.I. Joes in space.
Dave mourned the lost talent in MCA‘s halls, knowing full well the Catch-22:
mischief lost its value when grafted to academics. So his life would remain incomplete.
He would never witness Stratham‘s face as Luke Kane verified the impact of a 34‖
aluminum bat on a classic steel box.
Rachel would be amused at this angst, at frustration with model behavior. ―What
about you?‖ his sister would taunt. ―Do you remember yourself in high school? That
day you scratched Mr. Newberry‘s Taurus with your trombone case?‖ The mishap
distressed him for half a week. But when he finally admitted the accident, the chemistry
teacher was nonplussed. Newberry delivered a spur-of-the-moment tutorial, a doublebarreled lesson on the restorative powers in confession and 3000-grit sandpaper.
61
Bats were obsolete — Stone Age clubs in a microchip world. Surely the locals
used shotguns, blasting away from the passenger seat. Not bracing themselves in the bed,
timing their swing as each target raced past. It required too much diligence.
No, mailbox baseball was idyllic: Norman Rockwell mischief from a civilized
age. These days, the enlightened brutes had more serious business, running meth labs in
the trunks of their tricked-out imports. Why crush the hand that fed them, smashing the
source of their false IDs? A set of washed checks bought a lot of weed.
And why this obsession with vandalism? Life wasn‘t COPS.
Most of Dave‘s stereotypes revealed his envy, a fascination with misbehavior that
stemmed from his own naive childhood — the nagging belief that he‘d missed a grand
time, that slim window before pranks brought felony charges. He‘d been a virtuous
child, an upright young man. At the time, the behavior drew affirmation and praise from
his teachers. ―Shenanigans,‖ he muttered. ―I captained the MathCounts! team, but I
missed the shenanigans.‖
If Bethany were riding next to him, she would reach over and scratch the nape of
his neck. The gesture was a statement, declaring her tolerance of his grumpy moods.
She might comment about his driving — the way he overcorrected, wrenching the truck
away from the danger: ―it‘s only a habit, especially when you‘re tired.‖ She would offer
to take the wheel, but he panicked whenever she drove the Ranger.
Yes, Beth looked at the outward appearance, but the Lord looked at the heart.
That makes no sense, he thought. Perhaps she discounted appearance and imagined a
heart. The fact was, she saw more in him than he saw in himself. But even that wasn‘t
right. Each saw something different.
62
Sometimes Dave worried that he was an ass. Did admitting the fact excuse it?
Probably not. His head drooped in a slow nod, and he snapped upright. Here was the
real equation, the problem he ought to assign his students. A man leaves Midfield on a
Thursday night. How far must he travel? How fast does he need to go? Can he return in
time for Saturday‘s game?
We need more specifics, they‘d whine. You gave too many variables.
But that‘s all they‘d get: lots of variables, few specifics.
63
Scenic Overlook: Highway 129
South of the 411 Motel, Highway 129 breaks to the east, toward foothills of the
Smoky Mountains. The transition is gradual at first: subdivisions linger, the outer bands
of Maryville development. But they fade in the rearview mirror, replaced by cattle that
huddle in mud-choked ponds.
Farms dot the rolling countryside. Patchwork gardens border the turns, and
thickets line seasonal creeks. An oak stands alone, sentinel of the meadow. Ranch
houses crown the low slopes, with lawns that stretch for acres and tan drives that snake
down to the road.
A handful of barns remain intact. Lettered with white paint, they exhort families
to See Rock City. The oldest structures have collapsed. Webs of splintered timber bear
witness to the ravages of fire, weather, and economics.
Gas stations watch crossroads that have lost their significance. Paint flakes off
the islands. Fields grow smaller, the crops now planted in narrow dales. Woods flank
the highway. They cling to the pitch of encroaching hills.
Throughout the region, a well-worn notch in the Bible Belt, churches appear with
increasing frequency. As buildings grow smaller, their names expand: Laurel Valley
Tabernacle, Big Creek Assembly of Holiness, Skunk Mountain Missionary Baptist.
Services breed and multiply: 9:30 Sunday School, 11 AM Worship; Tuesday night
64
Praise; AWANA Clubs Wednesday; Thursday morning Bible Study; Saturday Prayer &
Potluck.
Chilhowee Mountain looms on the horizon. The ridgeline blocks the path east,
forcing the road to the south — toward Lake Chilhowee and the Little Tennessee.
65
Piss Off, Deacon
Friday Morning, 8:50 AM
October 15, 2010
The driveway was steep, climbing the hill toward a modest, brick structure. The
white steeple pointed straight to eternity. It promised hope, a message tempered by the
small graveyard on the far side of the parking lot. Foothills Christian Fellowship,
according to the sign at the entrance, which also declared that ―God Answers Knee-mail.‖
At least it had character. His own megachurch, Maple Park Worship Center, was
an ode to focus-group mediocrity. Nothing stirred the soul like theater-style seating and
Jumbotron screens. On the stage, a worship team rocked out to praise choruses: ―Lord, I
Lift Your Name on High,‖ ―Days of Elijah,‖ and ―I Could Sing Of Your Love Forever.‖
As if the Almighty God preferred songs with a mass-market appeal and sensible chord
changes.
Packed with pilgrims, Spirit-filled and satisfied, the Fellowship Hall swarmed
with rich, earthy sweaters, like a born-again catalogue from L.L.Bean. The only ―Maple‖
near the Family Life Annex was now a grandmother — Mavis Maple, who served in
Noah‘s Nursery. But ―Park‖ seemed apt, given the massive asphalt lots, with footprints
that dwarfed the actual sanctuary. A respectable five minutes late on most Sundays,
Dave often faced a quarter mile trek to the entrance. At least it was quiet. His church
attendance was based on the principles of guerrilla warfare: arrive unseen, slip out early,
and avoid the loading zone. Delay until the benediction, and you were caught in the herd
of khaki pants. You guarded your shins as the children swarmed out the Narthex, playing
66
tag amid the landscaping. In a congregation where offspring symbolized the favor of the
Lord — a man‘s ―quiver of arrows,‖ according to the Psalmist — three kids was merely a
starter set.
The gas station coffee ate at his stomach lining. A bitter taste lingered, but it did
little to wake him. Dave needed a second cup. He passed through the village of Pumpkin
Center, and the forest tightened its grip. Soon he would enter the Cyclone, a series of
curves that guarded the entrance to North Carolina. Grandpa had named them for a
coaster in Ohio, a wooden rocket that he still recalled from a childhood vacation — long
before his service in Europe and the move to Tennessee.
The house in the woods was large: a Cape Cod with two stories and a trio of
gables. A handful of vehicles were parked at its wraparound porch. A flimsy sign
marked a gravel entrance: ―Coffee & Breakfast Served Daily.‖ Some joker had crossed
out ―Daily‖ and written ―Sometimes.‖
What the hell, Dave thought. He missed the entrance but pulled into the next
opening, which led to a far less attractive building. Its windows were boarded, and a
notice was stuck to the front door. It reeked of illicit behavior. A package store that dealt
more than booze, or a backcountry strip joint with years of growth in its ill-lit corners.
The yard between the drives was well-traveled. Dave followed the ruts and
parked between two large pickups. He grimaced at the size of his truck, dwarfed by the
F250s that flanked it. A psychologist could have a field day with that one, he supposed.
67
He felt for the backpack, squeezing the front pocket for the ring box, and shoved
it deep behind the passenger seat. Dave covered it with a blanket, then locked and
double-checked the door. He circled the truck and tested the opposite side.
A wooden sign on the roof had been stained a dark brown. It christened the
establishment The Dragon‘s Brew. Forest green script matched a whimsical portrait of
the namesake serpent. The beast sat on its haunches, propped upright to enjoy the mug of
coffee between its . . . what were they, anyway? Forearms? Paws? Hands? Dave had
little grasp of dragon anatomy, a lamentable gap in his education. Harry Potter would
know the answer.
A plume of steam rose from the beverage, braiding with smoke from the dragon‘s
nostrils. Attention to detail, Dave thought with admiration. Always check your work.
A stairway bisected the house. In a room to the right of the foyer, a college
student was highlighting with determination, laying waste to a thick science textbook.
Heavy enough to crush dreams, to deter the faint of heart and their ill-conceived visions
of pharmacy school. Two doors in the back announced ―Knights‖ and Maidens.‖ The
student glanced in his direction, then returned to her task. She brandished the marker like
a decoder ring, unlocking the secrets of covalent bonding.
Dave turned to the opposite side, where a single room stretched the length of the
building. Generous windows gave views of a slender meadow. Specks of dust floated in
the morning light, which exposed the nicks on mismatched tables. Organic highlighting,
thought Dave.
68
The brick fireplace was empty, though kindling had been piled at its side. Two
armchairs faced the hearth. An older man glanced over his shoulder, then called to an
open door: ―Customer, Emily.‖
―One second, Andy,‖ a woman answered.
―She‘ll be with you in a second,‖ the man informed him.
Dave sat in a chair by a window. The space was quiet, and most of the seats were
vacant. Near the center of the room, a four-person table was littered with books and
papers. The stacks were formidable, though their balance was suspect: five or six
volumes high, buttressed by notebooks, folders and legal pads. Behind this barricade, a
middle-aged patron was reading and jotting notes. He bowed head to page, revealing the
gaps in his thinning hair. The selection was eclectic: library books with generic binding;
older volumes, their pages yellow and spent; travel guides from Moon and Lonely Planet;
maps and pamphlets, even a picture frame. Post-It notes sprouted like dandelions.
A sheet of paper had fallen, covered with drawings of wildflowers. Dave went to
retrieve it. The elaborate sketches were rendered in colored pencil and bordered with
annotations. The scholar glanced at him, staring over the glasses that slid down his nose.
Dave handed the page without comment.
―Run,‖ the man whispered. ―Run now, while you still have the chance.‖ He
raised his voice and repeated the cry for Emily.
―God, Deacon,‖ she called. ―I said I was coming.‖ A pan clattered to the floor,
followed by an expletive.
He turned back to Dave. ―I said fly, you fool.‖
69
Emily rounded the corner, wiping her hands on a towel. ―Can I sell him a coffee
before you run him off? Despite what you think, I‘m trying to turn a profit.‖
―How can you help it?‖ Deacon flicked a mug atop one of the piles. ―A buckfifty a cup? That‘s worse than gas.‖
―Fifty cent refills — try asking for that at BP.‖ She smiled at Dave, and he tried
to determine her age. She moved with grace, but the lines near her eyes showed fatigue.
Still a terrible price per gallon, muttered Deacon.
―Don‘t listen to a word that man says. He‘s always hounding the customers,
trying to scare them away.‖ According to Emily, Deacon wanted the room for himself.
His stacks would claim seat after seat, until the entire house became his dominion. ―If he
limits himself to a single table, he gets to store his clutter overnight.‖
Dave was half-listening, stuck on the problem that Deacon suggested. Assume
eight cups a gallon. A mug for $1.50, fifty cents for each refill. Five dollars a gallon.
He would use the question on Monday, a warm-up assignment for students in Practical
Math.
―. . . do for you?‖
―What‘s that?‖ Dave blinked.
―I said, ‗What can I do for you?‘‖
―Sorry — zoned for a second. I‘m pretty beat.‖
―He was checking for a ring,‖ called Andy. ―Stunned by your magnificent
looks.‖ He raised his mug. ―Take note, son: flattery gets you a free refill.‖
―Leave the boy alone, Andrew. I‘m old enough to be his mother.‖
70
She could have passed for his mom, aside from the knot of strawberry-blonde
hair. That and the UT sweatshirt. Mom had returned home to east Tennessee, but she
refused to embrace its twin religions. The Southeastern Conference meant little to her:
she yawned as the strapping young men knocked heads in Neyland Stadium. And church
had grown wearisome. She now kept the Sabbath on her back porch, with hot tea for
communion and the Sunday paper as a hymnal. ―No woman can serve two masters,‖ she
had informed her son, when he remarked on her renunciations. ―So I chose neither.‖
Besides, after a week of nursing her mother and acting like Grandpa took care of himself,
she had earned the break: ―a true day of rest,‖ she explained.
On the blackboard behind the counter, the prices for mochas and lattes were
printed in colored chalk. Specimen jars held muffins and bagels.
―What sounds good?‖ asked Emily.
―Get you an egg sandwich.‖ The voice passed behind Dave. ―Your stomach can
thank me later.‖
―So will your cholesterol,‖ added Deacon.
―Piss off, Deacon.‖ The new arrival crossed the room and claimed the paper in
the second armchair.
―Very mature, Harold. The rebuttal of champions.‖
―Curb it, gentleman.‖
―If you spot a gentleman here, smack him,‖ said Harold.
Emily ignored the comment and wiped the display. ―We want to attract
customers, boys, not frighten them.‖
―Aren‘t we customers, too?‖ asked Deacon.
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―You‘re a thorn in my flesh. I‘m running a business, not senior day care.‖
―Hey — I resent that remark,‖ said Andy
―No,‖ Deacon said, ―you represent—‖
―I know — we represent that remark. Write some new jokes before your next
visit.‖
―Better yet,‖ added Harold, ―don‘t come back at all. And take your books with
you.‖
Like a floor show, thought Dave. Had they rehearsed the banter, refining the
timing in each exchange, until even the snorts of derision were second nature? How
much of the act was solely for his benefit? How much for their patron? A trio of aging
peacocks, still flaunting their faded plumage.
―Never mind the peanut gallery,‖ said Emily. ―They get crotchety when they‘re
threatened with youth. Now what would you like, hon? Cappuccino? Scone? Dragon‘s
Breath?‖
―Dragon‘s Breath?‖
―A Mocha with three shots of Espresso and a dash of Peppermint syrup. Keeps
you awake for days.‖
The prospect was tempting, but he selected the path of least resistance. ―Just a
coffee.‖
―Two-fisting your Morning Joe?‖
―What‘s that?‖
72
She pointed to the Styrofoam cup he was holding. The empty container was
crammed with used tissues and empty Pop-Tart wrappers, the debris from his night on the
road. ―Looks like you‘ve already got your order.‖
―This? This is just trash.‖ He added an obvious statement: ―I‘ve never been here
before.‖
―I know that, darling. I‘d remember someone as lost as you.‖ She gestured for
the cup, and he passed it over the counter.
Dave glanced at the pastries as she poured his coffee. ―I suppose I‘d like a bagel
as well.‖
―Don‘t scorn good advice,‖ called Harold. ―You want an egg sandwich.‖
―Do I?‖ he asked.
Emily nodded.
―Good man,‖ said Harold. ―Two of them, Em-, with plenty of cheese and bacon.
Add them to my tab.‖
Dave began to protest, but Deacon stopped him. ―Save your breath, son. You‘re
out of your league.‖
Emily disappeared into the kitchen. ―I‘m keeping track, Harold. Your tab‘s my
retirement plan.‖
―Grows faster than my 401K, that‘s for sure,‖ Deacon grumbled.
―Piss off, Deacon,‖ called Andy — less a response than a clock striking the hour.
73
A Toast to the Roast
B5 Friday, February 26, 2010 | The Blount County Register
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
by
Janette Richardson
A Toast to the Roast
In a county like ours, word of mouth
travels faster than Eric Berry on a safety
blitz. (Thanks for the metaphor, Pops!)
Three years ago, when I began writing this
column, I relied on my anonymity. I could
visit each restaurant a handful of times,
sampling the various entrees, and assume
that my dining experience was typical.
These days, however, I‘m known
throughout Maryville — no thanks to a
tattle-tale Facebook post by Chef Jeffries
(Little River Grille). Managers and waiters
huddle in corners, keeping watch on my
table, and I often suspect the portions I‘m
given. Does the Seafood Carbonara at The
Tuscan Hearth always contain that many
shrimp? Do sirloins at the K.C. Stockyard
come with two sides as well as that baked
potato?
So I was eager to skip town for my next
assignment, to practice the subterfuge
essential to my craft. I‘d heard rumors
about a peculiar coffee shop, this onewoman show in the hollows near Happy
Valley.
As I would discover, however,
writing a traditional review of The Dragon‘s
Brew would prove harder than it looked.
Being no coffee aficionado — a cup of
Sanka hits the spot, thank you very much —
I seldom frequent our local ―breweries‖: The
Holy Roast, Java Junction, and Ed‘s Coffee
Shack. But I‘ve received enough emails
from fans, encouraging me to visit this
remarkable café, that I was determined to
investigate the legend for myself. The doors
might be locked, they explained, depending
on whether Emily Aldrich — proprietor and
sole barista — felt like working that
morning. What‘s more, a few warned, her
regulars are fiercely loyal — flirting with
their hostess as they putter away the
morning — and often heckle visitors until
they flee.
The shop was hemorrhaging money, by
most accounts, given the limited revenue
from its core group of patrons. So I was
determined to see for myself, maybe use my
celebrity and its bully pulpit to rustle some
much-needed business.
Not that Emily needed it, according to one
conspiracy theorist, who argued that coffee
sales were merely a front. The second story
housed a ―less reputable‖ business.
Guess what? The rumors are true. Well,
everything but that last piece of hearsay.
Though Emily winked when I put the
question to her face. She appeared to relish
her designated role: community menace and
mistress of ill repute.
―Keeps the decent folk guessing,‖ she told
me. ―Keeps them the hell away from here.‖
To experience this unique spin on Central
Perk, head south from Maryville on US
Highway 129. But take heed: unless you‘re
riding a motorcycle, you‘ll soon feel out of
place. This drive toward North Carolina is
the approach to Deal‘s Gap and the stretch
of road known as The Dragon, celebrated
nationwide for a ten mile stretch with 318
stomach-churning curves.
74
The roadside assumes a medieval bent —
though the armor is leather, rather than
chain mail.
Stores advertise Dragonthemed merchandise: maps, t-shirts, the
usual bric-a-brac. Now, as some of you
know, I‘ve never been a huge fantasy buff.
(Sorry, Melissa in Alcoa, but I still haven‘t
finished Twilight!) I‘ve read about hobbits
and Narnia, played Legend of Zelda on my
Nintendo, but I can‘t recite the history of the
elves. So I grew anxious as I passed the
hamlet of Pumpkin Center and began to
look for Emily‘s shop.
To my surprise, I felt right at home, the
moment I entered The Dragon‘s Brew.
Perhaps it was the building, nestled into a
lovely glen amid foothills of Chilhowee
Mountain. I‘ve always loved Cape Cod
construction, the way light enters rooms
from each gable. Perhaps it was the quirky
décor: a far cry from the Dungeons &
Dragons posters on my brother‘s wall. No,
the erudite mascot of The Dragon‘s Brew
prefers steaming milk to scorching knights.
He warms his beverage with an inner fire.
The welcome was family-style. Emily
greeted me from behind the counter, and
the regulars laughed at my Honda Element,
which seemed out-of-place in a parking lot
filled with pickups. The teasing was never
malicious, and they harassed one another as
well. In fact, have you ever noticed how pets
resemble their owners? At The Dragon‘s
Brew, the regulars favor their mascot: crusty
on the outside, with a tender spot at the
underbelly.
Consider Ralph Mitchell, who you‘ll find
weekday mornings, surrounded by stacks of
reference material. He teaches history at
Tallassee College, where he is known for his
book The Wellspring of Mountains: A
History of the Little River Watershed. In
fact, Mitchell has been awarded a sabbatical
this fall, to work on a companion volume
about Abrams Creek.
The locals seem unimpressed with his
accomplishments. In fact, they don‘t even
call Mitchell by his real name. At the Brew
he is known as Deacon — more often than
not, a nickname that‘s coupled to insults
from Harold Miller and Andrew Schofield,
retirees of the US Forest Service who camp
in their armchairs and supervise the dining
room. Snug in their foxholes, they lob
verbal grenades until sleep overtakes them.
Remember Staler and Waldorf from The
Muppet Show, the cantankerous seniors
that heckled performers from their box
seats? The Dragon‘s Brew boasts its own
crotchety duo.
―They maintain a steady barrage,‖ Emily
said. ―Any time Deacon opens his mouth,
they drive him back to his books.‖ Of
course, she acknowledged, their posturing
increased whenever she was present.
Deacon was listening from a nearby table,
eavesdropping for most of the interview. ―A
restaurant should protect its clientele from
abuse,‖ he said. ―I deserve to work in
peace.‖
―Piss off, Deacon,‖ called Andy.
―And I don‘t retreat to my work. I opt for
the high road.‖
Harold offered a vivid rebuttal.
[Unprintable in a family paper —Ed.] But
Emily ignored the skirmish: ―Mind you,‖ she
said, ―Deacon‘s far from innocent. He
invites the ridicule, correcting their stories
about the region.‖
―I simply observed that Abrams Creek
was named for a Cherokee chief, not the
family that lives in Happy Valley.‖
Given this abuse, why does he return
every morning? Not for the coffee, because
he scorned the roast throughout my visit.
―His wife makes him,‖ Emily said. Freed
from his teaching responsibilities for the
semester, Deacon would roam the halls of
his department — cornering junior faculty
with tedious conversations as they tried to
prepare for class. After a few weeks, the
Head of the Department suggested he work
from home this term.
―A blatant falsehood,‖ Deacon objected.
―I volunteered my office to a visiting
professor.‖
―Only he drove his wife crazy,‖ said
Emily, ―suggesting new ways to manage a
house that she‘s tended for decades without
his help. So she booted him out. I supply
day care while she gets her work done.‖
―Slander, pure and simple.‖
―It‘s the truth,‖ said Emily. ―We‘re taking
one for the team, allowing the students at
Tallassee College to get the education they
deserve.‖
75
Emily gestured at my notes. ―I suppose
it‘s slander if she writes that in her report?‖
she asked Deacon.
―Not in print,‖ he answered. ―In print, it
would be libel.‖
―Good Lord,‖ she said.
―You can‘t libel the truth, Professor
Numbnuts,‖ called Harold from his throne.
Most of the regulars have nicknames
bestowed by their peers, the same way that
Appalachian Trail hikers receive their trail
names. Emily is Em-, Madame Emily, or
Red. Within an hour of my arrival, I met
Harley Mike, Marlboro Matt, Bleeding
Heart Candace, and Dear John Deere.
They‘re perceptive folk. None of them
had read my column, but they all suspected
my role within minutes, forcing me to ditch
my typical format. I abandoned my plans
for a review. The Dragon‘s Brew deserved
feature-length coverage. (Thanks for the
extra space, Editor Daniels!)
[You‘re
welcome, Jannette –Ed.]
Harley Mike ―borrowed‖ my notepad and
added his own observations, employing the
backcountry idiom of his Grandma. He
claimed it would add a true mountain feel to
the story: ―Emily‘s coffee beats angel teat,‖
he scribbled. ―I‘d drink it with one toe in the
fire.‖
[―Angel teat‖ is a high-quality
moonshine –Ed.]
As for the product? The coffee tasted
great, though I don‘t know the difference
between premium French Roast and the
Food City brand. And the selection of
pastries looked decent: muffins and bagels
and scones, oh my!
Harold advised me to follow his lead and
order an egg sandwich, which lived up to its
promise of cheesy, cholesterific goodness.
I‘d prefer the addition of color — a thick
Grainger County tomato — but that‘s the
health nut talking.
Besides, you don‘t visit The Dragon‘s
Brew for the food. You go for the spectacle,
hoping Emily opens the shop that day.
We‘ve seen the TV shows that portray
restaurants as second homes:
Cheers,
Friends, Seinfeld. We all want to know if
that‘s true.
Deep down, you suspect that the regulars
wish you would leave them alone. Emily
hinted as much, warning me against excess
praise: ―I don‘t want to attract a following.‖
―What about them?‖ I asked, pointing at
the regulars.
―They‘re not customers. They‘re the lost
and broken, the poor and rejected of the
earth.‖
―That‘s right,‖ said Deacon. ―You‘re a
regular Messiah.‖
―They‘re part of the décor, really.‖ She
raised her voice so that Harold and Andy
could hear. ―And a hell of a lot cheaper than
Ethan Allan.‖
Harley Mike stopped at our table on his
way out the door. ―Board meeting on
Tuesday?‖ he asked.
―What‘s that?‖ Emily said.
He winked at me. ―If you‘re bored, let‘s
meet.‖
But don‘t bring a tour. You‘ll ruin the
character of the place, something that
Emily‘s patrons are careful to preserve. In
the past, this defensive behavior has crossed
the line. Consider the activities of Deacon,
who — true to his nickname — teaches an
adult Sunday School class at a local church.
He worried that its members would follow
him, pestering him with ideas about that
week‘s lesson. So he slipped an allusion to
Dagon, the god of the Philistines, into his
anecdote about Emily‘s coffee house:
something to do with The Dragon‘s Brew
and Dagon‘s Brood.
Gossip spread
throughout Maryville, whispers about
Wiccan rituals and pagan sacrifices on the
days she mysteriously closed.
Emily has heard them all: ―On Monday I
sell meth off the porch. Tuesdays I run an
illegal strip club, and Thursdays I harbor
prostitutes. The first Sunday of the month, I
break Blount County‘s liquor laws with an
underground moonshine ring.‖ She pauses,
then grins. ―Might be a grain of truth to that
one.‖
It‘s hard to quash rumors that confirm a
community‘s suspicions. Questions emerge
when a business stays open on a trickle of
customers, especially when several of them
boast ever-growing tabs.
Emily ignores her detractors. ―‗Screw
them — I don‘t need their righteous dollars.‖
Empty tables fill the establishment. ―I‘ve
76
got an independent revenue stream, one
that I can‘t spend fast enough.‖
And here‘s where the story gets
interesting, though Emily wants to avoid
using names and asked me to keep the tale
brief. (Too late, I know.) In case she finds
time to write that book she‘s been planning
— or better yet, ink that movie deal.
After a childhood in Blount County, Emily
moved to Knoxville in her early twenties, fell
in love with a young, enterprising
businessman, and settled into the Sequoyah
Hills neighborhood next to Lake Loudon.
You know the tale: he succeeded in his
ventures, earning seats on public and
private councils, while she entered the ranks
of the social elite.
True, her rural
background excluded her from the most
prestigious circles, but she danced at the
country clubs, raised thousands of dollars
for regional charities, and cheered with
fervor — a lifelong Volunteer fan — from
premium seats and luxury boxes in Neyland
Stadium, the perks of a husband with close
ties to UT Athletics.
―We had a good run,‖ she said, leaning
her chin on her hand.
―Twenty-seven
years.‖ Her orange sweatshirt was stained
with grease. It featured Smokey the bluetick hound, beloved mascot of Tennessee. I
tried to picture her in a cocktail dress.
They grew apart, spending fewer and
fewer hours together. ―Like roommates,‖
she said, ―less like lovers and more like
roommates.‖
She won‘t give a specific reason for the
final separation — whether there was an
affair, either on her part or his — but she
hints that both parties were involved in
―extracurricular‖ activities. One night, they
began to talk, a conversation that lasted well
into morning. The next week, he moved
into an apartment downtown.
She stayed in the mansion on the river for
two more years, but the social functions had
lost their appeal. ―You know, when you no
longer taste a food you once loved? Like
that.‖
Neither sought a divorce. ―We still cared
for each other, and we were already living
separate lives. We didn‘t need a judge to
bless our disunion.‖ She leaned across the
table. ―I would have taken him to the
cleaners. He knows that.‖
We sat in shadows on an overcast day.
I‘d scheduled a second visit to complete the
interview, and she decided not to open the
café. A few visitors drove through the lot,
noted the darkened rooms, and continued
on their way. Deacon parked, and we hid in
the kitchen as he pulled on the doors and
wandered about the porch.
―Besides,‖ Emily said, ―men flirt when
they think you‘re married. It frees them to
be themselves — they don‘t fret that you‘ll
actually consider their advances.‖
She
paused, savoring her next revelation. ―And
the ones that are serious? Well, everything‘s
better when they think they‘re sinning.‖
She grew tired of Knoxville and eager to
try a new project. The idea for the coffee
house struck her on a drive along the back
roads of Blount County, a young devotee
with a new convertible. The instant she
spotted the house, falling to pieces in the
woods, she envisioned her current business
plan.
Her husband didn‘t understand this new
passion, but he agreed to bankroll the
venture. ―I can be very persuasive when I
want to be,‖ she observed. She moved into
the upstairs floor – ―Don‘t tell the Health
Inspector,‖ she joked – while he returned to
Sequoyah Hills with his current girlfriend.
―The flavor of the month,‖ Emily calls her.
The story will sound familiar to Volunteer
fans. After his divorce, basketball coach
Bruce Pearl moved into a new mansion with
a younger partner. Meanwhile, his ex-wife
Kim used the money from the settlement to
open her own business: Alimony's Hair &
Nail Salon.
Emily acknowledges the similarities. ―I
see how we‘re alike, two women starting a
new stage in our lives.‖ But the difference,
she argues, involves a particular nuance in
her business plan — her commitment to
losing money, something The Dragon‘s
Brew does very well. ―To remind him I‘m
down here: alimony without those g—d—
lawyer‘s fees.‖
Twice a year, she and her husband meet
at Chesapeake‘s, her favorite restaurant, to
discuss The Dragon‘s Brew. ―He critiques
my decisions, my cash flow, and the flaws in
77
my model,‖ she said. ―I think it‘s sweet, this
new ‗love language‘ we‘ve found.‖
I
observed that their business meetings sound
a lot like dates, a concept that struck her as
lovely: ―Now that we‘ve separated, we‘re
able to date again.‖
―He never cared for my charities, but I‘ve
got his attention now. Probably because I‘m
wasting his money. But it‘s more than that
— we‘ve got something to talk about. I know
it sounds silly: we never had kids, so this
place‖ — she gestured about the room — ―I
think of it as our child.‖
Emily wants to expand the operation,
gutting a decrepit building next door and
adding a dinner menu. She plans to connect
the entrees to her annual vacations, trips
that have taken her to Greece, Australia, and
Japan in recent years. ―Wherever I‘ve gone
the past year, that will be the inspiration.
We‘ll always have barbecue and fried
chicken, a section of the menu devoted to
East Tennessee. But the other half might be
Bavarian one year, Brazilian the next.‖
For now, she‘s content to brew coffee for
her boys. So the next time you‘re driving to
Fontana or Bryson City, stop for a cup of her
daily roast. Enjoy your latte, and listen to
the soothing cadence of Statler & Waldorf as
they heckle Deacon. Join Harley Mike for a
―board‖ meeting. And whenever you need
an artery-clogging breakfast, follow the
advice of Harold Walker: ―Have you an egg
sandwich.‖
78
The French Broad
Friday Morning, 9:20 AM
October 15, 2010
A sliding door led to the side patio of The Dragon‘s Brew. A brook cut across the
clearing, which rose toward a ridge in the east. Wisps of fog hung over the forest, the
trademark accents of the Smoky Mountains. The sun hadn‘t topped the crest, yet the sky
was a piercing blue. Dave thought about angles and warmth: the tilt of the earth, and rays
striking the hemisphere at a slant.
The older development stuck to the valley floor. Trailers along the highway cut,
and a knot of shops at the crossroads of Pumpkin Center. On the slopes, patches in the
canopy revealed the future: second homes and vacation rentals.
It was a shame, Dave thought, the builders climbing the hillsides.
He was a hypocrite. He wasn‘t opposed to construction, only its rate, the land that
would disappear before he could snag a prime location. He wanted a cabin, with his own
back porch and hot tub and miles of mountaintop views. Just like everyone else.
How many hills would be claimed, he wondered, before he retired? Given the
salary structure at MCA, it would be decades until he could purchase a starter home, let
alone an investment property.
The equation had a single constant: the amount of land. The acres within sight of
Mount LeConte would never increase — not until the next Ice Age, at least. At the same
time, a host of factors would heighten the demand. Suppose Family X owns a home on
GreatView Ridge, which Children A, B, and C learn to love. When they‘re older, they all
79
purchase cabins for their respective tribes. Even if Mom and Pop relinquish the keys,
that‘s a 200% increase in a single generation. Meanwhile, over in Knoxville, Family Y
didn‘t have the money to afford such a luxury, but Daughter M and Son N have better
prospects. They‘ve already talked to a realtor. Such exponential growth — working on
the same principle as compound interest — would strip the terrain by the end of the
century.
Perhaps the recession was the hand of God, a slow-down in construction that
allowed the landscape to catch its breath. Dave liked the idea, as if the free market‘s ebb
and flow masked a secret trapdoor — a ghost in the system that was actually the Year of
Jubilee.
What if Shuckstack met the fate of these foothills, with its slopes swathed in
homes? A lot could have happened in a decade.
Not yet, Dave assured himself. The mountain lay within the park. One day, the
Smokies would face a perfect storm: development on the borders would reach the
saturation point, while budget shortfalls forced the unthinkable. The national parks
themselves would be condemned as progressive socialism, the geysers of Yellowstone
sold to the highest bidder. The Washington Monument toppled — an inappropriate
allotment of public funds for the creation of abstract, modern art.
But the country wasn‘t there yet. The forest south of the dam had probably
changed, with RV campgrounds spreading like kudzu, but the mountains remained intact.
Shuckstack was safe, at least for Dave‘s lifetime.
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He recalled the view from the tower: the primary ridgeline running north, then
northeast, the AT climbing and falling from one peak to the next. Slowly ascending
toward Clingman‘s Dome, the second highest point in the East. Thunderhead would be
visible, perhaps even Siler‘s Bald. The rest of the names were lost to him, another
shame. Once upon a time, he and Grandpa would recite the entire litany.
Concrete plugs lashed the tower to the mountain. They grounded the primary
supports, the steel beams that lifted the observation platform to the heavens. Flights of
rickety stairs climbed the center of the structure — six or seven stories, at least. They
were exposed to the elements, sheathed by a frail exoskeleton.
The gaps in the beams seemed immense, especially to a child. A single misstep, a
gust of wind that knocked you off balance, and you could plummet to your doom. The
winds were fierce at the top.
Had Grandpa been irresponsible, leading his grandson on a dangerous climb?
Had he been lured by the unparalleled view, worried that it would soon disappear? Even
a decade ago, rangers had talked about closing the tower.
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Which was another risk. That the structure had been declared a safety hazard and
shut to the general public. That Dave would travel five hundred miles, but not the last
seventy feet.
He adopted a stoic posture: the tower might let him down, like all the works of
man, but the mountain was timeless.
Horsesh—t. He could hear Grandpa‘s rebuttal, sense the cuff to the back of the
head. Where did you learn a fool notion like that? The mountain changes all the time.
Didn’t I teach you anything about weathering and erosion?
A hawk doesn’t float, son. It makes constant adjustments mid-air. It takes power
— tremendous power — for that trout to hold steady in the current.
Dave tried to defend himself: he meant that the mountain would look the same.
That it‘s still there.
Of course it’s still there. But it won’t look the same, not to you.
What could he expect, Dave wondered.
Don’t expect anything. Unless you expect to be fooled: that’s always on the table.
Andy and Harold were reading their papers, while the stacks around Deacon
continued to grow. He propped a volume against a pile, jotting notes on his legal pad.
The image reminded Dave of breakfasts with Rachel and the forts they would
fashion from cereal boxes, hiding their bowls from each other. Siblings constructing
walls — foreshadowing in the Frosted Flakes.
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―Looking for a book?‖ asked Deacon. ―Some light reading to accompany your
egg sandwich?‖
Emily carried two plates from the kitchen. She gave one to Harold, set the other
on Dave‘s table, and selected a random hardback from Deacon‘s stacks. ―Soils of the
French Broad. That‘s your idea of light reading?‖
―What‘s that about a French Broad?‖ called Andy.
―It‘s the name of a river,‖ Deacon informed them.
―Tell us something we don‘t know,‖ Harold said. ―Doctor Douchebag.‖
―You don‘t even know what that vulgarity means,‖ said Deacon. ―You learned it
from Randy.‖
―We know it applies to you, Professor Numbnuts.‖
Emily returned the book, feigning disgust. ―Seems to me, you‘d get a lot more
readers if you wrote about this French chick, not the river named after her.
Steam rose off the biscuit, and the smell of bacon set his stomach in motion. ―Eat
it while it‘s hot,‖ suggested Emily.
The first bite seared his palate. Dave thought about opening his mouth and letting
the food cool, but Emily was smiling at him. He swallowed, and the back of his throat
burned as well.
―Good, isn‘t it?‖
Dave grinned, repressing the urge to wince.
A knock on the window drew their attention. The porch was empty. A second
thud, and a flash of brown as it bounced off the glass.
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Emily moved toward the sliding door. ―Idiot.‖
A small, dazed bird hopped about the patio. Others watched from a rail. Emily
shouted, and they retreated into a shrub. She walked to the bush and harried the
branches, driving them to the nearby trees.
She returned to the dining room. ―House sparrows. Tourists drop crumbs on the
porch during summer, and the little devils get used to the handouts. Come autumn,
they‘re desperate — bold but stupid.‖
Fresh customers approached the counter: two men about Dave‘s age, both
wearing flannel shirts and Carharts. ―Hit the window if he returns,‖ she said.
Once it was cool enough to chew, the sandwich was first-rate: a hint of butter on
the biscuit, and actual Cheddar cheese — not a processed slice. Crisp bacon offset the
texture of the eggs.
The bird slammed into the window.
Deacon stomped to the door and smacked the glass. ―What we need is a good
farm cat.‖
Dave stared out the window and thought about a toy he once owned, a plastic
racetrack for his matchbox cars. The figure eight had a special feature, a device that he
christened the ―Wheels of Speed.‖ They spun at absurd rates, grabbing cars and shooting
them into the next lap, loop after loop after loop. The cars raced ahead, slowed, and hit
the wheels to resume the cycle.
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Compared to the Wheels of Speed, the car wash was always a disappointment.
No matter how fast the brushes whirled, they failed to budge the station wagon.
One afternoon, Dave broke the track into segments and fashioned them into a
jump, with the Wheels at the edge of the porch. Propping one end on a lawn chair, he
slipped the cars into a slow descent. They gathered momentum, hit the lip, and shot into
space. For an instant they soared, twisting and flipping toward the peak of an arc. The
prelude to their inevitable dive.
The sunlight was strong on the table. A weary feeling washed across his body,
and he set his head on his arms, closing his eyes in the warm glare. He ran his tongue
across the roof of his mouth. A fleck of burnt skin peeled away.
Emily took an order. Harold and Andy discussed a local football team. Deacon
read.
A flutter from outside. The birds were back on the rail.
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Review Problem – Section I
Practical Math – Mr. Kingman
November 17, 2010
Name: _____________________________
At your favorite coffee house, The Holy Roast, a small coffee (12 oz.) sells for $1.50, a
medium (16 oz.) for $1.75, and a large (20 oz.) for $2.00. All refills are 50 cents.
1. What is the price per gallon of a small coffee? A medium? A large?
2. Mr. Kingman purchases a small coffee and one refill, rather than buying a large. Is he
making a good business decision?
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SECTION II: MILLER LIGHT
In which the teacher attempts to leave town.
Recluse — A Geology of Sweaters — The Arachnid Threat — Jeremiah 17:9 — Travel by
Barrel — Checklist — The Great G- M- — The GMV & the BSG — Cords of Three — By
then we’ll be married — Gordon and the Fleece — Living Under Prayer — An
unexpected harmony — The Peaks of Wal-Mart — Hair Metal Songs and High School
Missions Trips, a practical guide — Pirates from The Church of Christ — A Masquerade
— Two by Tuesday: A Triptych — 106.5 The Ark — Gordon admits a crush — Recluse:
Reprise — Whistling in the Dark — Review Problems, Section II
Midfield, Ohio
. . . where families & companies grow!
Midfield Chamber of Commerce
LENGTH: A 10.2 mile loop, extending from Dave‘s apartment to the Wal-Mart on the US
33 connector, then returning through the center of town.
HIGHLIGHTS: The Great G— M—, distributor of Miller Light & the hound of God
CAUTIONS: OCD behavior; an unusual fixation with 80s Hair Metal.
TRAILHEAD: Shady Grove Apartments, Apt. D5; Midfield, Ohio
Thursday evening, 8:55 P.M. October 14, 2010
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Recluse
Thursday Evening, 8:55 PM
October 14, 2010
Dave stands on a chair, wary of the sweaters on his closet shelf. The motley
collection has followed him for years. Like strata on a canyon wall, the layers of fabric
reveal the past.
Precambian
The bedrock hasn‘t been worn in a decade: a silver and ruby and turquoise pattern
— inspired, no doubt, by Dr. Huxtable.
Rachel once threatened to burn the garment, a Christmas present from his father‘s
parents.
Your coat of many colors, their mother observed, appraising the gift with a cool
eye. How appropriate.
Paleozoic
An olive cardigan, a nod to the memory of Kurt Cobain. It entered the wardrobe
in college, years after Nevermind went platinum.
Mesozoic
A cotton v-neck from his first year of teaching. Paired with the mandatory collar
and tie at MCA, a far cry from the hip t-shirt on that mannequin at the Gap.
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The navy fabric was a magnet for chalk dust, but it led to a triumph of wit, standup comedy in the teacher‘s lounge — his remark about the ―after math‖ of equations.
Cenozoic
A new addition caps the pile. Mustard and rust, as if the Maroon & Gold of an
MCA jersey had been scoured dull. ―Perfect for coaching on Autumn nights,‖ claimed
Melissa Clark, the student who knitted the gift for Teacher Appreciation Day.
But Dave is not thinking about Melissa. He is fretting about necrotic bites,
concerned that brown recluse spiders have nested within the winter clothing. Last
Sunday, when he stashed the engagement ring at the rear of the closet shelf, tucking it
behind the pile, he failed to weigh the arachnid threat.
But Dave is not worried about spiders. Not really.
He is wasting time.
The open blinds perturb him. Given the proper angle — perched in a sugar maple
— a thief might be scouting the third-story bedroom. An admirable challenge for his
Geometry students.
Correct answers gain access to his wardrobe: bounty for Horrible Sweater Day,
the traditional Tuesday of Spirit Week. Known as Bad Sweater Day, or B— S— Day,
until Stratham discovered its nickname.
Last fall, Bethany won the Teacher Competition with her ―Christmas Tree‖
ensemble, featuring a red sweater vest with appliquéd ornaments. She paired the atrocity
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with a green turtleneck, a long denim skirt, and a wicker angel she glued to a headband.
Bells on her cuffs jingled as she taught.
Dave wore the Precambrian and carried the slacker vote.
At the window, he stares into the night. Security lights cover the parking lot, but
not the trees on the front lawn — the namesake feature of the Shady Grove Apartment
Complex.
Shady Grove. Which suggests a criminal element. He‘ll propose this idea, the
next time his neighbor complains about the laundry room bandit, the scratches on her
Camry, or the teens smoking pot in the nearby woods.
Dave closes the blinds and returns to the closet. He pulls the sweaters to the floor,
lifts a gift bag from the back of the shelf, and removes a white box with ―Kirkman‘s
Jewelry‖ embossed in gold. A mahogany case hinges open, revealing a diamond ring: a
modest but elegant princess cut. The black velvet draws attention to the band, and light
plays off facets of the stone.
Dave touches the rock, testing its reality. Eight hundred and seventy-nine dollars.
The price seems real enough, though far beneath the standards of the gemstone industry
— three months, a quarter of a year‘s salary.
His yearly salary? Twenty-two thousand, six hundred dollars. Which includes
his coaching allowance, but not the thousand dollar bonus he‘ll receive next May, for
completing his seventh year at MCA.
Twenty-five percent? Five thousand, six hundred and thirty dollars.
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The ring falls several grand short.
The light within his apartment is dim. It cannot match the brilliant display at the
jewelry store. The clarity of the ring appears suspect, its color less vivid than he
remembers.
Looks can deceive, he thinks.
So can the heart, he adds. Jeremiah 17:9.
He prays she finds it beautiful.
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Travel by Barrel
Thursday Evening, 9:25 PM
October 14, 2010
Dave stares at the map, a Cracker Barrel promotion that highlights over five
hundred restaurant locations. He traces I-75 south from Midfield: Lima (Store #133),
Piqua (#295), and Dayton (#59), plus two on his route through Cincinnati. Five
restaurants to clear Ohio.
The map hangs on the wall of the living room, next to a poster with the fall sports
schedule.
Eight stores across Kentucky, then Lake City, north Knoxville, and Maryville.
Sixteen locations in all.
Three hours from Midfield to the Ohio River, a handful to cover the Bluegrass
State, and a couple in Tennessee. Eight hours of driving: two Cracker Barrels per hour.
Dave transfers the map from the wall to the front pocket of his backpack, next to
the ring box, a snapshot of Bethany, and the book of Psalms, ripped from an NIV Bible.
In the main compartment: an extra t-shirt, granola bars, windbreaker, disposable camera,
a package of Strawberry Pop Tarts, and two bottles of Lemon-Lime Gatorade.
Why calculate distance in miles? Why not restaurants?
―Chicago to Des Moines? That‘s nine or ten Cracker Barrels, I reckon. Should
take about five hours.‖
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―Dayton to Columbus? Less than an hour, son. That‘s a two Barrel trip.‖
He keeps the flask at the foot of his bed, in the chest holding his contraband —
the personal effects that would disturb his handlers at MCA: a Sports Illustrated swimsuit
issue, the Harry Potter books, and a ―Yes, We Can!‖ bumper sticker. The bottle of
Merlot was a birthday present from his mother, who knows that it violates his contract.
The poster of Mia Hamm isn‘t taboo, simply a concession. Bethany questioned
its place on his living room wall. ―On aesthetic grounds,‖ she insisted.
He fills a flask from the bottle of Maker‘s Mark. The label suggests the book of
Genesis. The Creator‘s imprint throughout the universe — the bow in the sky, the
mathematical perfection of a conch shell, and the flaming sword at the Garden of Eden.
The Maker‘s Mark. He wraps the flask in a bandana, then adds it to the pocket with the
ring and the map.
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Checklist
Thursday Evening, 9:35 PM
October 14, 2010
1. _____ Inspect the lock on the sliding glass door. Ensure the patio is intruder-free —
a test that the shower, the hall closet, and the underside of the bed have already
passed.
2. _____ Stand outside the bathroom, listening that the water has stopped
3. _____ Place the checkbook within the empty DVD case for The Two Towers, then
hide it beneath the Healthy Choice meals in the freezer.
4. _____ Examine the kitchen: the faucet, the knobs on the stove, and the seal on the
refrigerator door. Touch the oven coil, then each of the burners.
Last April, he scorched his finger on an eye that was still hot.
5. _____ Unplug the toaster and feel for latent heat.
―What?‖ his sister once asked, back when the habits were starting to form. ―Are
you afraid that a cockroach will trip the lever, igniting a Kleenex across the room?‖
The possibility has crossed his mind.
6. _____ Drop to one knee and blurt a short prayer, asking the Lord to protect the
apartment.
7. _____ Shoulder the pack and head for the stairs.
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Inventory
1. Cracker Barrel
1930 Roschmann Drive
Lima, Ohio
I-75 & SR 309
Exit 125
Interstate 75
Midfield, Ohio
Lima
2. Cracker Barrel
980 East Ash Street
Piqua, Ohio
I-75 & US 36
Exit 82
Piqua
3. Cracker Barrel
7171 Miller Lane
Dayton, Ohio
I-75 & Benchwood/Wyse Road
Exit 59
Interstate 70
Dayton
Interstate 675
Middletown
4. Cracker Barrel
3280 Towne Blvd.
Middletown, Ohio
I-75 & SR 122
Exit 32
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Interstate 275
Cincinnati
Interstate 74
Interstate 71
Ohio River
5. Cracker Barrel
2255 Sharon Road
Sharonville, Ohio
I-75 & Sharon Road
Exit 15
Interstate 275
Florence
6. Cracker Barrel
7399 Turfway Road
Florence, Kentucky
I-75 & Turfway Road
Exit 182
Interstate 71
Dry Ridge
7. Cracker Barrel
1131 Fashion Ridge Road
Dry Ridge, Kentucky
I-75 & SR 22
Exit 159
Interstate 75
8. Cracker Barrel
1454 Cherry Blossom Way
Georgetown, Kentucky
I-75 & US 62
Exit 126
Georgetown
9. Cracker Barrel
1927 Stanton Way
Lexington, Kentucky
I-75 & Newtown Pike,
Exit 115
Interstate 64
Lexington
Interstate 64
Richmond
Berea
12. Cracker Barrel
101 McKinney Drive
Berea, Kentucky
I-75 & KY Highway 21
Exit 76
10. Cracker Barrel
2220 Elkhorn Road
Lexington, Kentucky
I-75 & Winchester Road
Exit 110
11. Cracker Barrel
1797 Lexington Road
Richmond, Kentucky
I-75 & Hwy 25
Exit 90
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13. Cracker Barrel
80 Alamo Drive
London, Kentucky
I-75 & State Route 80
Exit 41
London
Interstate 75
Kentucky
Tennessee
14. Cracker Barrel
111 Colonial Lane
Lake City, Tennessee
I-75 & US 25 West
Exit 129
Lake City
15. Cracker Barrel
5001 Central Avenue Pike
Knoxville, Tennessee
I-75 & Merchants Road
Exit 108
Interstate 640
Interstate 40
Knoxville
16. Cracker Barrel
771 Louisville Road
Alcoa, Tennessee
US 129 & Louisville Road
US Highway 129
US Highway 411
Maryville
US Highway 411
US Highway 129
*
Store locations subject to change.
Contact Cracker Barrel for current conditions.
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The Great G— M—
Thursday Evening, 9:40 PM
October 14, 2010
He had returned to the door twice, clicking the knob as he shoved against the
deadbolt. He clutched the keys in his left hand and tucked them behind his back —
ensuring he didn‘t unlock the door by mistake. Both times, he closed with a flourish: a
triplet — left, right, left (Father, Son, Spirit) — and a final pull, the three united in one.
Dave forced himself to cross the parking lot. Had he fooled himself? Had he
really locked the door, or was he recalling another time?
What about the bedroom window? The outlets in the living room? The
thermostat?
Could you truly rely on your senses? On your memory?
The car could be heard before it appeared, straining against the slope of the drive.
Dave didn‘t need to see the blue Skylark. He knew The OC by the sound of its engine.
Gordon was almost home.
The GMV
Gordon had never watched The OC, the television show that shared his car‘s
name. He admitted as much to Dave: ―It doesn‘t meet the Philippians 4:8
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standard, I suspect: ‗whatever things are true, whatever things are pure, whatever
things are properly clothed—‘‖
―Properly clothed?‖ Dave said. ―Is that an approved translation?‖ They
were standing outside, supervising the afternoon dismissal.
MCA students could use the King James, NIV, or the New King James for
their Bible coursework. A handful of rebels quoted the RSV or ESV — the
―Extra Spiritual Version,‖ they defiantly claimed. Not to mention the rumors of
closet anarchists — copies of The Message buried inside their lockers.
―Not exactly. My own paraphrase: The GMV. Gordon Miller‘s Version.‖
―I‘m not sure Stratham would approve.‖
―True that. He doesn‘t understand my humor, not like you. That‘s one
thing I like about you, David. You get it.‖ Gordon poked his colleague on the
shoulder. He was small, but could slap a back or squeeze an arm with surprising
power — punctuating his lines with gestures that bruised. ―Of course, if my first
name was David, my version would be the DMV.‖ Gordon laughed at his pun.
―The least efficient translation known to man. Chapters in triplicate, a paragraph
just to say ‗Jesus wept.‘‖
―For God so loved the world, that He sent his son to take a number.‖
―In the beginning, God waited in line for a permit.‖ Gordon mimed a rim
shot. ―Probably the reason it took six days to build the universe.‖
―So what I don‘t get, is why you named your car for a show that you‘ve
never seen. Explain that logic to me.‖
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―Well, technically, I didn‘t name the Skylark for the show. OC stands for
‗Old Car,‘ not ‗Ocean City.‘ But it sounded cool, and the kids think I‘m hip.‖
Both of his statements were false.
―Wait.‖ Dave was confused. ―I thought the show was about Orange
County?‖
―I don‘t know,‖ Gordon answered. ―Like I said, I‘ve never seen it. But it
doesn‘t really matter: I haven‘t been to either of them.‖
They watched the parents arrive. Minivans and SUVs crawled forward to
swallow their offspring. Elsewhere, juniors and seniors clustered around the
parked vehicles. Holly Ward sat on a tailgate, flirting with Brian Dunn, a
midfielder on the varsity.
Dave wondered about the young man‘s perspective, if he spotted a
difference between Coach K— and the great G— M—. Probably not.
Dave had been a senior at MCA when Gordon was a freshman. In many
ways, he still treated his colleague like he remembered him: an awkward fifteenyear-old with a saxophone case. Now, they were lumped in the same pot.
Who was he kidding? He wasn‘t even on Brian‘s radar, which had locked
firmly on Holly and little else.
Younger, grade-school students raced through the lot. Two of them darted
at the line of traffic.
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―Dunn!‖ yelled Dave. Holly screamed, and Brian caught the first child by
his backpack. The third grader flew, swung through the air and away from
danger.
A frantic mother rushed at the boys. Dave ceded the scolding to her. ―Nice
grab!‖ he called to Brian.
―Way to go!‖ yelled Gordon. ―Nice grab! Well done, Dunn.‖ He inched
closer to Dave, who answered with a step of his own.
That OC rumble grew louder. The Skylark drew into sight.
Dave didn‘t have time for Gordon‘s nonsense. He‘d need to recover each minute
they wasted, either increasing his speed or cutting his power naps short. Now that he‘d
committed to the trip, he wanted to reach the trailhead at dawn. To climb the mountain
with the rising sun.
But Gordon had spotted him. He couldn‘t leave without a chat, not without
raising suspicion. So Dave lingered in the center of the lot, hoping to limit their tête-àtête. At the truck, Gordon might lean against the side or drop the tailgate, settling down
for a deep conversation.
The G— M— approached. ―What up, Daa-veed?‖ On his maroon MCA
windbreaker, the mascot was stitched in gold: an eagle in full descent, its wings arched
and talons spread.
―Not much. What about you?‖ He pointed at Gordon‘s briefcase. ―Working
late?‖
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Gordon tapped his jeans, a dress code violation. ―Out and back again. You know
— Thursday night, time for BSG.‖
The BSG
Borders Study Group started as a help session for Gordon‘s Old Testament
surveys — to assist students as they wrestled with major and minor prophets. A
popular move, especially as parents connected their children‘s attendance with
scores on the unit tests.
Friends began to tag along, bringing work of their own. Students besieged
the café on Thursday evenings. They hogged the tables and caused a ruckus.
As his flock grew, Gordon‘s role evolved. No longer the Grand Inquisitor,
holding court on the critical distinctions between Habakkuk and Zephaniah.
These days, he was reduced to a gentle nagging. He encouraged the scholars to
study, not text. To limit their noise to a dull roar. It was a shame, really. Rather
than waxing eloquent about Amos and the plumb line, Ezekiel and the wheels in
the sky, or Hosea‘s marriage to Gomer the prostitute, he challenged his pupils to
replace the magazines they had pulled from the shelves.
He called himself the General Manager: G— M— the G.M.
―GM2 to you math geeks,‖ he informed Dave, one night he was tricked into
helping with crowd control. Gordon had invited his victim out for a coffee, then
brought him to the lion‘s den: the very pupils he struggled to avoid. Baristas
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glared at the men, holding them responsible for the chaos. Even a generous tip
drew a scowl — fifty cents on a three-dollar latte, almost twenty percent.
Dave‘s first BSG was also his last. Still, Gordon hoped for a return. Even now, a
casual encounter was a chance to campaign: ―Megan Campbell was struggling with her
Algebra homework. Bryce tried to help.‖
―Bryce Jackson?‖ Above all, do no harm — a precept tutoring shared with
medicine. Standards had fallen, if Bryce was providing the aid. The blind leading the
blind.
―They both looked a little confused.‖
―They‘ll get it if they work hard enough.‖ Which was a boldfaced lie.
―You know, you‘re always welcome at BSG. When it‘s time for a comeback,
contact your local G.M.‖
―I‘ll think about it.‖ Dave shifted his weight, trying to appear harried.
His colleague ignored the cue. ―What about you? You never get home this late,
not on weeknights.‖ From the balcony of his own apartment — only two stairwells down
from Dave‘s pad — Gordon often kept watch on the Shady Grove lot.
―That‘s not true. Game nights, I get back late.‖
―But there wasn‘t a game tonight. Which reminds me — what the heck happened
the other day? When you got all berserk with the Stillwater coach.‖
Dave downplayed the incident. The fight had been blown out of proportion, a
trivial incident that rumor had magnified to epic heights.
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Gordon was skeptical. He‘d watched the drama from the stands. He wasn‘t
judging: Dave had the right to be angry, given the cheap shot to his player. ―To be
honest, I admired your intensity — the way you stood up for Ryan.‖
Still, Dave refused to discuss the incident.
―You‘re evasive this evening. What has you so defensive?‖ Gordon was
grinning, enjoying the chance to hassle his friend. ―Where were you, buddy? Out on a
date? A little time with your feisty senorita?‖
Bethany hailed from Muncie, Indiana. She enjoyed knitting, missions
conferences, and episodes of Dancing With The Stars when the costumes didn‘t get too
risqué. But Gordon ignored all that. He emphasized the subject she taught and
considered her a fiery, Latina woman. ―She loves the language,‖ he claimed. ―In my
book, that makes her an honorary member of the culture.‖ By the same logic, he was
transformed into an Old Testament Patriarch. Dave was a nerd, eager to whip out his
graphing calculator and quash the party. ―Where‘s your slide rule, Mr. Math?‖ Gordon
would often taunt. ―How did a geek like you tame the heart of a lovely mu-cha-cha?
There be magic in them numbers.‖
―You‘re squirming,‖ Gordon observed. ―I must be on the right track.‖
―No, Gordon — nothing spicy this evening. No salsa dancing, no hot tamales.‖
Gordon opened his mouth, but Dave launched a preemptive strike: ―No Mexican
jumping beans. No sombreros, tangos, or jalapeños. Not even a chalupa.‖ For the finale,
he emulated a Mexican soccer telecast: ―And no, bud-dy, I did not . . . Scoooooore!!!‖
In the silence that followed, he moved toward the truck.
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―Then what are you doing out?‖ called Gordon, desperate for something to say.
Dave raised the backpack without turning. It felt heavier than it should.
―What‘s in the bag?‖
―My coaching clothes. And a Gatorade. Unless I leave them in the truck tonight,
I‘ll forget them tomorrow morning.‖
Gordon advanced from behind. He set a hand on Dave‘s arm and brought him
around, his tone serious: ―David, I need to ask you something — as a brother in Christ
and a member of your Cord. You‘re not going to see Bethany, are you?‖
The male faculty met in Cords of Three: an older mentor, usually a board member
or an administrator, and two younger teachers. Inspired by Ecclesiastes 4:12 — ―a cord
of three strands is not quickly broken‖ — they discussed their spiritual walks and held
one another accountable. Twice a month, Dave slouched toward Cracker Barrel at 8 AM
on a Saturday morning, breakfast with Gordon and Harold Fox, the Middle School
Principal.
―What if I am?‖ It annoyed him, the way Gordon assumed his right to know.
―I want you to think about your testimony, that‘s all. What‘s appropriate, this
time of night.‖
―It‘s not even ten-thirty.‖ Dave almost admitted the sad reality: Beth kicked him
out at nine on weeknights, eleven on Fridays and Saturdays. But he wanted to set a
precedent, to establish the snooping he would and would not tolerate. Besides, this line
of examination was a relief. The longer he hedged, the more Gordon latched to the red
herring. It was easier to conceal the truth: his plan to skip town and play hooky, the
unauthorized leave. He would slip the tether, if only for a single, glorious day.
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―Ten-thirty on a school night,‖ Gordon emphasized.
―Who cares? Nobody‘s watching.‖
―Except me.‖
―That‘s right, Gordon. Except you.‖
―Maybe nobody spots you tonight. But some time, a group of students will be
pulling a prank at one in the morning — forking her yard or rolling her car in Saran Wrap
— and they‘ll spot your truck in Beth‘s driveway.‖
―She doesn‘t have a driveway. She lives in an apartment.‖
―David, does that really matter?‖
He‘s been around Stratham too much, thought Dave. He‘s already learned that
patronizing tone. ―I don‘t think Clint Downs has the balls to TP an entire complex.‖
Gordon flinched at the expression, as Dave had expected. But he stood his
ground. ―This isn‘t about Clint. I‘m looking out for you.‖ He put one hand on Dave‘s
chest and placed the other on his shoulder. From a distance, they might have been
dancing. ―I don‘t want you to be tempted.‖ The condescending tone was gone, replaced
by a touch of sadness. ―Believe me, I know how hard it can be, living the single life we
do, trying to keep ourselves pure.‖
―Gordon—‖
―Maybe tonight you‘ll be safe. But maybe not, and one day, when she‘s living in
a house—‖
―By the time she‘s living in a house, we‘ll be married.‖
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Gordon and the Fleece
―By the time she‘s living in a house, we‘ll be married.‖
Dave Kingman, ―The Great G— M—‖
Dave blurted the comment before he could check himself. But there it was, out in
the open: they’d be married. As if the plan was inevitable. Predestined. Set in motion at
the foundation of the world.
Not they might be married. They would be.
The statement transformed Gordon. A grin crept across his lips, the volcano‘s
first plume of smoke. Then he was pounding Dave‘s back and shaking his hand —
concluding the deal. ―Dude, that‘s wonderful! Great! Excellent congratulations!‖
The blitzkrieg confirmed Dave‘s fears. To The G— M—, the remark was a
declaration of intent.
It was his own fault, really. From the start, he kept the relationship close to the
vest. The day he and Beth went public, Gordon learned the news from a student. He
chastised his friend for keeping the process so private — for neglecting to pray with the
Cord, partners on his spiritual walk, before taking such a momentous step.
Now, all was forgiven. Dave had revealed his master plan, the best gossip of all.
He had denied Gordon the lesser boon, but slipped him the keys to the kingdom.
Gordon perched on his toes, bouncing with nervous energy. ―You and Bethany,
getting married. I‘m . . . that‘s so excellent!‖
Shit, thought Dave — he‘s ready to spread the news.
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Bethany was already vigilant, scanning his conduct for signs of his intentions, for
shadows of the question she longed to answer. Whatever they did — hiking at Van
Buren Lake, eating dinner at The Sicilian Arbor — she dressed better than the setting
required. In case they took pictures, he surmised. To document the occasion for
posterity.
Even if Gordon kept his trap shut — an unlikely prospect at best — he would
radiate with pheromones of expectation. Beth would sense a change in the air.
The situation would escalate, like a nuclear showdown. If Bethany sensed an
imminent strike, her preparations would amp to DEFCON Two. Life as Dave knew it
would cease to exist.
―Hold on,‖ he cautioned. ―It‘s probably going to happen, but nothing‘s for
certain.‖
―But you said—‖
―It‘s probably going to happen,‖ he repeated. ―Nothing‘s official. I haven‘t
asked her, we‘re not engaged.‖ He calibrated the lie to fit Gordon‘s expectations: ―I‘m
taking a spiritual retreat in a few weeks, to pray about the decision and ask the Lord‘s
blessing.‖
A kernel of truth, at least. Still, he shot a prayer of forgiveness to the Holy Spirit,
hoping his soul wasn‘t fatally scarred.
Gordon accepted the bait. Yes, yes, he agreed. A night in the wilderness — you
can even borrow my fleece, if you want. ―To seek guidance with the decision, like
Gideon in the book of Judges.‖ Still in ―teacher mode‖ from the BSG, he leapt into the
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familiar tale: how the young warrior set the skin out at night, testing God‘s will. ―If the
fleece was soaked but the ground was dry, the Israelites would be victorious.‖ Except
Gideon waffled, asking God to confirm the decision on the following evening,
performing the miracle in reverse.
Seeking assurance a second time. Dave recognized the symptoms. Gideon didn‘t
have a stovetop or a thermostat, but he could double-check the fleece. An Old Testament
Obsessive. OT-OCD.
Gordon plowed through the rest of the story — how Gideon slashed his attack
force from 22,000 men to only 300. Making that first cut by asking them who was afraid,
then watching them drink at the stream to compile his final roster. ―Can you imagine?
How bold was that, given his plan for the ambush — torches and pitchers and trumpets in
the dead of night. ‗A Sword for the Lord and Gideon!‘‖
Did Gordon have an actual sheepskin in his apartment? Where did he get
something like that? Did Amazon carry Biblical surplus? What else did he keep in that
chamber of horrors?
―Gideon did all right,‖ concluded Gordon. ―At least he was bolder than Barak,
who only agreed to lead the fight if the prophetess Deborah would accompany the army.
So the honor of killing Sisera, the opposing general, went to a woman. To Jael. In the
tent. With a tent-peg to the forehead.‖ He pretended to stab Dave in the eye.
He worried that Gordon was just getting started — that he intended to cover the
entire book of Judges, but his colleague brought the lesson to a close: ―That‘s the OT,
brother. You gotta love it!‖ He shook his head in wonder and admiration. ―But what
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am I thinking? You don‘t want to hear about warriors! You‘re all about Ruth & Boaz
these days. Isaac and Rebekah, Rachel & Jacob . . . The Song of Solomon, dude!‖
―Remember,‖ insisted Dave, ―you can‘t say anything yet. Not to Bethany, not to
anyone.‖
―Your secret is safe, my friend.‖ Gordon pretended to zip his lips.
―I don‘t want her thinking about it.‖
―You want it to be a surprise.‖ He leaned close, the coffee lingering on his
breath. ―Have you bought a ring?‖
The pack brushed against Dave‘s leg. He shifted his hold, clasping the straps with
both hands.
The Imp of the Perverse
He wouldn‘t need to say a word.
He could toss the pack to Gordon and let fate run its course. It would be
simple, removing the burden of choice. Show G— M— the ring, and his decision
would be over.
The temptation of self-destruction. That pull as you cross a bridge, when
the desire to leap overwhelms you. Driving a rural highway — fighting a drift
toward the onrushing cars, battling that urge to ram cyclists from behind.
Sometimes, he would pause in the classroom, where a single, expletivelaced tirade could sabotage his teaching career. A decade of study and work,
destroyed within twenty seconds.
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What had Grandpa called it? When they sat on the scaffolding of the tower,
and David admitted his secret fear: that he‘d succumb to a random impulse,
hurling himself into space.
―That‘s not an impulse,‖ Grandpa explained. ―That‘s an imp — the Imp of
the Perverse. And you‘re not the first to encounter that siren song, not by long
shot.‖
Which didn‘t encourage his grandson — learning he wasn‘t alone, that
others could hear the crazy whispers as well. It didn‘t lessen the anxiety, knowing
that people he loved walked the razor‘s edge, a brief lapse in judgment from
doom.
But it wasn‘t the same thing, this urge to show Gordon the ring. To claim
the initiative. To relinquish control.
He could forget the tower, the fleece, this entire ridiculous trip. Turn for
the apartment and sleep in peace.
Was that so perverse? To long for rest?
If Gordon had held his tongue, he might have learned the truth. But he was
greedy and pressed the issue: ―You‘ve picked one already, haven‘t you?‖
It broke the Imp‘s spell. ―No, Gordon,‖ Dave lied. ―I haven‘t.‖ If he was bound
to destroy his life, he‘d accomplish the task himself.
For an instant, The G— M— was disappointed. But he transformed the letdown
into hope. ―Of course you haven‘t. How could you, with salesmen hounding your every
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step? Like you can make a decision with somebody pestering you.‖ He wrapped an arm
around his colleague and gestured with the other.
―I should come with you,‖ declared Gordon. ―I‘ll distract the clerks and help
negotiate. You know, like your Wingman.‖
A slight breeze was blowing, a chill in the crisp autumn night. It would be cold,
dipping into the 40s. Dave hoped it was warmer in Tennessee.
―Wings. That‘s it!‖ Gordon announced. ―We‘ll go to Wild Bill‘s Wings:
Wingman‘s treat. Grab some wings, then look at rings!‖
The situation was beyond control. Dave grasped for an excuse — a yarn about
heirlooms from Bethany‘s grandmother, anything to avoid a play-date with Gordon. But
he abandoned the idea, afraid that his colleague would demand a spontaneous visit to the
octogenarian, then a detour to ask Beth‘s father for his blessing. No, he thought. Allow
Gordon to plan their day of shopping, something to keep him distracted.
He had to admit, his colleague would be an amusing addition to Kirkman‘s
Jewelry: trailing BBQ sauce on the pristine displays, chatting the ears off his captive
audience — the sales clerk who followed his progress, erasing his tracks with a damp
cloth and a bottle of cleanser.
It would be quite the spectacle, almost worth the price of admission: an entire day
with The Great G— M—. Almost worth it.
―Well, buddy,‖ said Gordon, ―ready to call it a night?‖
Dave lifted his backpack.
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―That‘s right. Your clothes.‖ Gordon smiled. ―I can wait.‖
―You‘ve had a long evening.‖ Dave prodded him toward the complex, masking
his growing unease — a fear that this scene would never end. ―Get some rest.‖
―In a minute.‖ He returned the arm to Dave‘s shoulders and led him toward the
truck. ―You‘re on the homestretch: I‘m not gonna let you fall now.‖
Dave scrambled for an out. ―Okay,‖ he said, ―but I just remembered — I need to
run to Wal-Mart.‖
―You just remembered?‖ Gordon cast him a wary eye. ―Just now?‖
―I‘m not going to Beth‘s, I promise. I‘m out of milk.‖
―I believe you,‖ said Gordon. ―But I‘m coming along.‖
―Gordon—‖
―Come on, David. It‘s not like you have a choice. I told you, buddy — I‘ve got
your back.‖
The clock was ticking. If they hurried, they could return by eleven. He‘d miss
the sunrise, but that was a trivial matter.
He couldn‘t wait. He‘d already checked the calendar. The coming weeks were
crammed with reservations: dinners and banquets and tournament games and potlucks.
If he intended to climb Shuckstack this fall, it needed to be tomorrow.
Gordon stood at the passenger door of the truck. ―Shotgun,‖ he announced. He
formed his right hand into a pistol, aimed it at Dave, and fired.
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Living Under Prayer
Thursday Evening, 10:05 PM
October 14, 2010
The bass line to ―Livin‘ on a Prayer‖ pulsed from the stereo. Dave cursed the
oversight. He had loaded the next morning‘s tunes when he left the truck, cuing the
soundtrack for his AM commute. The songs he preferred were loud and raucous:
composed for arenas, not the cab of a Ford Ranger. The lyrics oozed with sentiment. On
the good days, they suppressed his depression and kept him on the road to campus.
Dave braced for his colleague‘s reaction — a groan, a shudder, even a mild
rebuke for the secular music.
But Gordon was singing along to the bass, air-drumming with Tico Torres. As
Jon crooned about Tommy and Gina — their dreary lives in the docks and diners of New
Jersey — Gordon matched him note-for-note.
―I didn‘t know you liked Bon Jovi,‖ shouted Dave. They pulled out of the
complex, heading east on Farmington Avenue.
―Gotta love the JBJ.‖ Gordon also loved to make proper names into acronyms:
Initializing, he called it. ―You‘ve got to learn to initialize, D— K—,‖ he would insist.
―Spare a vowel, save some time.‖
To his chagrin, Dave had adopted the habit. It had brought him trouble, talking
with Beth about Bob Jones University, when he referred to the school as the BJU.
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Gordon was telling a riddle, something about the difference between JBJ and a PB
& J. Dave didn‘t catch the premise, only the conclusion: ―but with twice the jams!‖
―You know,‖ Gordon said, ―I wanted to use this song at MCA. On a missions
trip.‖
―What?‖ Dave turned down the music. ―You played Bon Jovi on a school
missions trip?‖
―Almost,‖ corrected Gordon. ―Two years ago. I was going to use it as our theme,
but Stratham shot the idea down.‖
―You asked Stratham?‖
―I was going to paint it on a banner, something to hang in the sanctuary as we
renovated it. Down in El Paso, at that Hispanic church.‖
―You asked Stratham?‖ Dave repeated.
―He said it wasn‘t a good idea.‖
―That‘s all he said? If I asked to play Third Day at practice, he‘d rip my head
off.‖
―Because you antagonize him. You need to learn how to ask.‖ To get Stratham‘s
approval, he explained, you had to appeal to his pride. To convince him that he‘s critical
to the operation: without his support, the plan would be hopeless, and the entire scheme
would unravel. ―Assure him that he‘s vital to your mission.‖
Dave wondered about the extent of Gordon‘s charade, whether this whole persona
was a similar act: performance art with a secret agenda. An entire life, devoted to a
single inside joke.
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―I had planned a series of devotions, stressing a new preposition each morning:
Living On a Prayer, Living In Prayer, Living By Prayer. Living Without Prayer.‖
Dave searched for a preposition that wouldn‘t fit. ―Living under prayer,‖ he
suggested.
―Exactly. Their parents and friends had pledged to be prayer warriors, shielding
us with a spiritual umbrella. We ministered beneath that protection the entire week.
Living Through Prayer would stress its active nature, how it empowers our daily walk.
Before you screw something heavy into the wall, you drill a hole and establish an anchor.
That‘s prayer: the anchor that supports the action.‖
In other words, thought Dave, you should always pray before you screw.
Gordon listed prepositions: ―On, Through, In, By, Without, Under. There was
one more, one for each day of the week.‖
In eighth grade, the Language Arts teacher had claimed that a preposition was
anything a rabbit could do to a log. Which had always sounded a touch perverse.
―For.‖ Gordon hit the ceiling of the cab, knocking the rusty idea loose. ―That‘s
one of the most important. We‘re always praying for something from God, something for
us. But that‘s an incomplete picture. Our prayers should also come from us, for God.‖
―The Almighty needs assistance? It‘s not like He‘s recovering from surgery, like
He was Erin Scott‘s nephew.‖ It was astounding, the number of relatives that students
claimed. How they could recite an obscure detail about a distant cousin‘s illness, then
fail to recall the Pythagorean Theorem.
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―That‘s not what I mean. We pray for God when we pray for His people, for His
plan, for His Kingdom. ‗Thy Will be done, Thy Kingdom come.‘‖ Gordon paused,
searching for an explanation. ―You know ACTS, the acronym for prayer?‖
Dave nodded. ―Sure.‖ Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, Supplication. They
had used the mnemonic device on the Junior class retreat, during the hour of silent
meditation. It helped students to structure their time as they spread along the shore of
Lake Plaintree.
―Only one of the four involves asking for something — Supplication — and even
then, most of our Supplication ought to be Intercession, our requests on behalf of others.
You should start with your focus on God, with Adoration. Then Confess your sins. Give
Thanks for the blessings in your life — which is the difference between Adoration and
Thanksgiving. Adoration praises God for who He is, Thanksgiving praises Him for what
He‘s done.‖
Gordon was riding a wave. Rehearsing for chapel, most likely. But the
momentum also felt like Geometry, when the theorems and postulates locked into place,
pushing you toward that single, inexorable proof.
―Rather than praying for ourselves, we need to be praying for the community.
Think about it. How many times does the first person appear in the Lord‘s Prayer? First
person singular: I, me, mine.‖
Dave ran through the prayer in his head. ―None?‖
―Exactly. It‘s all plural. Have you ever tried to pray like that, so that every
petition applies to the kingdom as a whole, equally spread across the board?‖
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It was ironic, Dave thought, how a staunch Republican like Gordon could become
a Socialist, the instant he got on his knees.
―Now I‘m not saying that‘s the only way to pray. Consider the godly characters
who pray about their own lives: Hannah asking for a child, your namesake throughout the
Psalms, even Christ in Gethsemane. I‘m just saying, maybe we should direct a bit more
energy toward others, before we start fretting about ourselves.
―What I‘ve been thinking—‖ Gordon shifted out of his power delivery, evoking
a thoughtful mood. Drawing his audience toward personal reflection. ―That it‘s the
primary reason we‘re allowed to stay on this planet . . . to grant us enough time to pray.‖
They‘d slipped north of downtown on Henderson, then cut to the southwest and
followed the Highway 33 connector. They rolled past grocery stores, chain restaurants,
and strip centers — all migrated to the outskirts of town.
Any nostalgia was contrived. The development was actually decades old. Dave‘s
memories of downtown shopping were merely clichés: checkerboard barrels in a general
store, window displays with artificial snow. Reconstructions of his Grandmother‘s
stories, stripped from her own Midfield childhood.
Not that she minded the changes. These days, she preferred driving two hours to
the state capital, taking an afternoon to browse the upscale shops in the Columbus City
Center. She accepted a lifetime in Midfield, but her retail standards had improved.
A lifetime sentence in Midfield. Dave shuddered at the thought.
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Even after ten, the Wal-Mart lot contained dozens of vehicles. Most clumped
about the two entrances, but loners were scattered throughout the concrete wasteland.
That past summer, a body was found in a car — abandoned in a remote corner of
the massive lot. A parade of maintenance workers had assumed the driver was sleeping.
It took a week to perceive that he never moved.
Once the gruesome discovery hit the local news, it created a minor sensation.
Speculation raged: food poisoning from the Chinese buffet, a disgruntled lover‘s revenge,
even a takedown by outer bands of the Detroit mob. When an autopsy showed the truth
— the victim had suffered a massive heart attack — people lost interest. Reality was a
great disappointment.
Not for Dave. It appalled him, that you might die an ordinary death, within clear
view of hundreds of people, and no one would notice for days on end.
A cart drifted near the corral. Dave pulled through the space to avoid it.
―The next year,‖ Gordon said, ―I didn‘t ask permission.‖
―What?‖
―Last summer, when I used ‗Don‘t Stop Believin‘‘ for the trip‘s theme. You
know, the song by Journey?‖
He stole the idea from the show Glee, which had featured the song on its pilot
episode. ―I don‘t approve of the liberal politics, not to mention the sexual content. But
I‘m a sucker for song & dance.‖
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Back in high school, Gordon had clung to the theater kids. He auditioned for the
musical, landing bit roles. Dave could recall The G— M— in a German uniform,
guarding the stage during The Sound of Music.
Besides, Gordon was saying, the show takes place right down the road. In Lima.
You had to support the local image, like voting for Kent and Wapakoneta on So You
Think You Can Dance?
It wasn‘t fair, he argued, that Lima snagged most of the regional fame: the
Dillinger Gang; that PBS documentary, Lost In Middle America; even a classic
vaudeville slam on its lifeless theatergoers. Still, it was good to receive a little
Hollywood lovin‘, out here in the Midwest. ―West Central O-hi-o, re-pre-sent,‖ Gordon
declared — extending his arm for a high five.
Dave left his colleague hanging. He was eager to get in & out of Wal-Mart. As
they walked toward the store, Gordon described his sanitary cuts to the lyrics: ―nothing
significant, just the references to alcohol and sex.‖ It was a great theme, he contended,
all about perseverance and running the Christian race.
―Not stopping believing?‖
―Right. As opposed to Not Stopping to Believe, refusing to take the time for
God.‖ Which was the fate of most of the country, he added.
The more he thought about it, the more ―Glee‖ seemed like another good theme to
Gordon: ―something about the need for joy in our Christian walk.‖ He broke into a praise
chorus: mourning that turned into dancing, and sackcloth replaced with clothes of joy.
He partnered his acapella rendition with a spontaneous jig.
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Dave glanced about the lot, worried that students were in the vicinity. What
would they make of this odd fellowship?
―Come on, dude. Don‘t force me to worship on my own. It‘s by your namesake:
as in David, the Psalmist. ‗You have turned my wailing into dancing.‘ Psalm 30.‖ He
shuffled his feet, testing if Dave, the Loser, would join him.
They passed the entrance, the rows of carts and vending machines filled with
Sam‘s Choice. Dave wondered what Sam‘s options had been.
―Man, you are too uptight,‖ Gordon said. ―Do you know that? Don‘t you
remember what David did, after they reclaimed the Ark of the Covenant from the
Philistines?‖
―Dances.‖
―Dances.‖ Gordon mocked the dull delivery. ―Dude, he throws down! He‘s
leaping and jumping, shouting and laughing and leading the freakin‘ parade, stripped
down to that clothing he wore as shepherd.‖
He was probably relieved, observed Dave. They‘d recovered their most potent
weapon from a mortal enemy. It was the type of thing that pleased Heads of State.
―But he goes nuts!‖ Gordon exclaimed. ―All the way into the city.‖ He clapped
his hands, drawing a smile from the store greeter, who assumed it was zeal for discount
prices. ―Can you imagine the President doing that? And not for a press conference or a
photo op. No ridiculous Beer Summit or ‗Mission Accomplished‘ banner. Simply a
genuine, stripped-down, Holy Ghost dance for the entire country to watch on YouTube.
Can you imagine it? The President of the United States, crazy with happiness?‖
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The jewelry counter loomed on the right. Dave feared an attempt to kick-start
their diamond hunt. But Gordon was fixed on his rump-shaking vision of the Executive
Branch. ―That‘s the excitement we ought to have,‖ he insisted. ―I just want you to know,
I‘m praying that one of these days, you strip down.‖
A shopper passed them with a double-take.
―Excuse me?‖ asked Dave.
―Not your clothes,‖ said Gordon. ―Everything weighing you down, holding you
back from happiness. I‘m praying that God strips you bare, peeling back layers until you
go nuts, delighting in everything that He‘s given you.‖
―You‘re praying that I go crazy?‖
―If that‘s what it takes. Like Nebuchadnezzar in the book of Daniel. Remember
what Christ said: if we don‘t celebrate, the rocks will.‖ He gestured about the store.
―The mountains themselves will start to erupt.‖
At a rack of sunglasses, a man with an earpiece watched them with interest.
Plainclothes security, thought Dave. ―We‘re in Ohio,‖ he said. ―There aren‘t any
mountains in Wal-Mart.‖
―There are mountains everywhere,‖ Gordon insisted. ―Even in Wal-Mart, even in
Ohio.‖ He was serious, a slight tremor in his voice. ―They‘re everywhere, David. You
just can‘t see them.‖
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Hair Metal Songs That Would Make Excellent Themes for a Christian High School
Missions Trip (And/Or Chapel Service)
Compiled by Gordon Miller
1. Livin‘ on a Prayer – Bon Jovi
— As Christians, we live on prayer. It sustains and nourishes our daily walk. But that‘s
not the only role it should play in our lives: at times, we live On, In, By, Under, Through,
and For prayer.
2. Don‘t Stop Believin‘ – Journey
— Take the title‘s challenge in two directions: looking inward, ensuring that our personal
faith is strong, and reaching out, encouraging others as they run the Christian race.
3. Sweet Child O‘ Mine – Guns n‘ Roses
— We have been adopted as heirs, sons and daughters of God. The Father delights in his
children. He dances over us with joy.
4. More than a Feeling – Boston
— Salvation is more than an emotional response to Christ. It stems from faith in his
work of atonement. Once saved, we are always saved, no matter how lost we may feel.
5. Sister Christian – Night Ranger
— Brothers, we should be diligent and respectful toward our sisters in Christ: always
prompting them toward a deeper relationship with their Savior. [ Might work best on a
single-gender trip. ]
6. Don‘t Know What You Got (Till It‘s Gone) – Cinderella
— A look at Christ‘s brief span of ministry, how even the disciples had trouble grasping
his true identity until after the resurrection & ascension.
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6b. Don‘t Know What You Got (Till It‘s Gone) – Cinderella
— End Times theme, with a focus on the events that will follow the Rapture. The trials
for those left behind, once the church has been called home.
6c. Don‘t Know What You Got (Till It‘s Gone) – Cinderella
— The parable of the virgins and the lamps. The importance of staying vigilant, careful
not to weary as we look for Christ‘s return.
7. More Than Words – Extreme
— According to the book of James, faith and works must go hand-in-hand. How we act
provides evidence of our conversion and belief.
8. Final Countdown – Europe
— End Times theme, with a focus on the Rapture‘s approach, the signs and events that
foreshadow Christ‘s return.
9. Every Rose Has Its Thorn – Poison
— Jesus Christ, the Rose of Sharon, was called by His Father to wear a Crown of Thorns
10. Here I Go Again – Whitesnake
— Christians have a tendency to backslide, then approach the throne of grace for
repentance. Be careful, lest you start to rely on mercy as a crutch, an excuse to continue
sinning.
Alternate tune: Round and Round – RATT
11. Rock You Like a Hurricane – Scorpions
— As Christ preached in The Sermon on the Mount, the house built on the rock can
withstand a mighty storm.
12. What It Takes – Aerosmith
— The Philippian jailer asked, ―What must I do to be saved?‖ Paul and Silas answered,
―Confess with your mouth and believe in your heart.‖
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12b. What It Takes – Aerosmith
— The rich young ruler wanted to follow Jesus. He had kept the law, but he balked when
Christ asked him to give all he owned to the poor.
12c. What It Takes – Aerosmith
— As Christ told Nicodemus, you must be born again.
13. You Give Love A Bad Name – Bon Jovi
— A series based on the book of Hosea, the prophet that God commands to marry a
prostitute.
14. Rock of Ages – Def Leppard
— Under construction. [ Too self-evident? ]
15. Paradise City – Guns n‘ Roses
— A lesson plan based on the Parable of the Prodigal Son.
Alternate tunes: Bringin' On The Heartbreak – Def Leppard
Runaway – Bon Jovi
Headed For A Heartbreak – Winger
Runnin’ With the Devil – Van Halen
Where You Goin’ Now – Damn Yankees
16a. Walk this Way – Aerosmith
— Using Christ‘s life on Earth as an example, a model for us to follow. WWJD, anyone?
16b. Walk this Way – Aerosmith
— The Book of Proverbs & its practical advice for our daily lives.
16c. Walk this Way – Aerosmith
— The purpose of Scripture is not merely doctrine, but guidance.
16d. Walk this Way – Aerosmith
— The fruit of the Spirit, the evidence of Christ‘s presence in our lives.
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17. Still of the Night – Whitesnake
— The parable of the virgins and the oil lamps. [ See 6c ] You never know when Christ
will return.
17b. Still of the Night – Whitesnake
— God calls to Samuel in the dark. ―Here I am, Lord,‖ he responds. ―Send me.‖
18. Jump – Van Halen
— The leap of faith that Christ demands.
19a. Youth Gone Wild – Skid Row
— No reason. It just sounds like a mission trip theme.
19b. Youth Gone Wild – Skid Row
— The need to pursue our relationship with Christ with a spirit of reckless abandon.
20a. Still Loving You – Scorpions
— Christ loved us before we were born, He loved us when we were still lost in sin, and
He will never stop loving us, no matter what. [ Connect this to the Parable of the
Shepherd who searches for the lost sheep? ]
20b. Still Loving You – Scorpions
— God‘s love for his people throughout the Old Testament, and the way that Christ longs
to comfort Jerusalem in the Gospels.
21. Blaze of Glory – Jon Bon Jovi
— Elijah‘s chariot of fire: Best . . . Exit . . . Ever.
22. Wheel in the Sky – Journey
— Ezekiel‘s vision, the wheels within wheels that float in the sky, those wild beasts with
wings. [ Or find a Grateful Dead song, given E—’s hallucinatory visions and the
Valley of Dry Bones. ]
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23. Eye of the Tiger – Survivor
— A series based on Old Testament showdowns and courage: Daniel in the den of lions;
David vs. Goliath; Moses challenging Pharaoh.
24. Animal – Def Leppard
— God humbled King Nebuchadnezzar, turning him crazy for several years. He lived in
the wild, eating grass like a beast of the field. [ Too obscure? Take the easy route,
perhaps, and talk about Noah? Maybe Adam in the garden, or the use of animals
throughout Scripture: ―Go to the ant, thou sluggard‖; the birds of the air; Balaam’s ass,
etc. ]
25. We‘re Not Gonna Take It – Twisted Sister
— Satan, we rebuke you. You have no more power here. Get the hell out of our lives . . .
or, more literally: Go to hell, Satan.
Alternate tune: To Hell With the Devil – Stryper
[ A separate list for Christian metal?]
26. No One Like You – Scorpions
— A lesson plan based on the character of Christ
27. Dr. Feelgood – Motley Crue
— Satan, the master of lies and deception.
28. Panama – Van Halen
— For trips to Latin America? [ Probably too great a stretch. ]
29. Love of A Lifetime – Firehouse
— A series that describes our relationship with Christ. The Song of Solomon, and the
church as the bride of Christ.
Alternate: (Can’t Live Without Your) Love and Affection – Nelson
30. Something to Believe In – Poison
— Under Construction.
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31. Pour Some Sugar On Me - Def Leppard
— David hungers for the word of the Lord in the Psalms, calling it ―sweeter than honey
from the honeycomb.‖
32. Heaven - Warrant
— Under Construction. Literally. As Christ said, ―I go and prepare a place for you. . . .‖
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Pirates from The Church of Christ
Thursday Evening, 10:30 PM
October 14, 2010
Dave grabbed a pack of granola bars and an orange Powerade. He thought about
making trail mix — heavy on the M&Ms, the way Grandpa had taught him — but settled
on a Snickers bar instead.
Gordon had disappeared.
Dave wandered the grocery aisles, looking for his colleague. An MCA parent
was comparing packages of ground beef, so he ducked past the soup to avoid notice. The
move came second nature.
―Hey, buddy—‖ Gordon nudged his back with an elbow.
Dave whirled, eager to chew him out: ―Where have you—‖ He faltered at the
spectacle before him.
Gordon was holding a copy of The Da Vinci Code in one hand, casually
skimming its contents, with a twenty-four pack of Miller High Life cradled beneath the
opposite arm. He tried to act casual. ―Gettin‘ some brews, doin‘ a little reading. You
know how I roll.‖
―Listen, I‘m already behind—‖
―Behind the times? I‘ll say.‖ He couldn‘t sustain the character. ―I‘m just
kidding, man. You should see the look on your face. I wanted to see what you‘d do if I
brought this garbage to the checkout.‖ He held up the novel and moaned, ―Heerrressy . . .
Heerrressy,‖ in a spooky voice, like a ghost from an old Scooby Doo cartoon . ―Can you
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believe it? The G.M.‘s secret party life.‖ He laughed, then grew solemn. ―I‘m going to
put them back, in case there‘s a student wandering the store.‖
―I saw Mrs. Lewis in the meat section.‖ The news would scare Gordon, but Dave
was annoyed at the delay.
His colleague stiffened, and the color drained from his face. ―Kathleen?‖ He
glanced over his shoulder, then slipped down the aisle and out of sight.
When they met at the entrance, Gordon was still pale. ―She might have spotted
me. And Ray Davis was looking at candy, so I detoured through the baby food. Then I
saw him from another angle, and it wasn‘t Ray at all — just this bizarre double, like an
evil twin.‖ He took a deep breath. ―By then I was freaking out. I mean, what if a parent
or student had spotted me with that beer?‖
―Even if Kathleen saw you — and she didn‘t — I doubt that she‘d mind.‖ Which
might not be true. A number of parents lived more indulgent lives than they expected
from their children‘s teachers — who followed an austere code, setting the example that
wasn‘t provided at home. ―Besides, isn‘t her daughter on the Honor Roll?‖ Dave asked.
―Parents never complain when their kids earn high marks. Only when you assign a B+.
Then all hell breaks loose.‖
Gordon offered a skeptical laugh, uncertain if Dave was joking or serious.
―Why else do you think I passed Marty Adams in Practical Math? It wasn‘t his
test scores or homework grades, that‘s for sure.‖
Marty‘s father was a legend, running teachers through marathon after-school
conferences and megabytes of email correspondence. Dave wasn‘t sure how he managed
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to hold a job, given the time he spent pestering the faculty. More than a helicopter
parent: an invasive force, with a permanent beachhead in your inbox.
―I hear you,‖ said Gordon, ―but I‘ve got this imagination that won‘t quit, visions
of Stratham pulling the security tapes, hunting for proof that I broke my contract.‖ He
scanned the faces entering the store, as if the principal was lurking in disguise.
―You‘re going to be fine. Stratham likes you.‖
―I don‘t think he likes anyone, not even himself.‖ Dave smirked at the keen
observation, an insight he didn‘t expect from Gordon. ―But you‘re right: he dislikes me
less than most.‖
They paused as a Chevy barreled down the row. ―Listen,‖ Dave said, ―suppose an
impossible string of events transpires — something not even Dan Brown could imagine.
With Catholic subterfuge and Pentecostal double-agents. Baptist snipers, Reformed
assassins and nondenominational ninjas.‖
―Nondenom ninjas?‖ laughed Gordon. ―And pirates from The Church of Christ?‖
―Exactly. If Stratham learns you were carrying beer through Wal-Mart . . . which
you didn‘t actually purchase, let alone consume. If that happens, I‘ll explain the
situation.‖
―I mean, the contract says we can‘t drink alcohol. It doesn‘t say we can‘t hold it.‖
An idea struck Gordon as funny. ―I don‘t have much tolerance, according to CNN. But I
sure can hold my beer.‖
Dave fumbled for his keys at the door to the truck.
―There‘s only one problem,‖ Gordon said.
―What‘s that?‖
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―Stratham.‖
―What about him? I said I‘d stick up for you.‖
―I know,‖ said Gordon. ―He doesn‘t believe a word you say.‖
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Two by Tuesday: A Triptych
Thursday Evening, 10:40 PM
October 14, 2010
I. A Fool‘s Company
Gordon opened the passenger door and stepped into the truck.
Dave glanced at the keys in his hand. What the hell? The dunce hadn‘t bothered
to lock his side. In an instant, he pictured the theft: the lowlife hunting for iPods and
GPS devices, snatching the backpack as an afterthought — a bag for their loot. Never
suspecting its thousand dollar prize.
He scrambled into the cab. Gordon was reaching to pop the door, and Dave
pushed him back, rushing to check that the ring was secure. Relief as he felt the box in
the front pocket. He stifled an impulse to open the case and touch the diamond.
―What‘s the matter?‖ asked Gordon. ―You okay?‖
―You didn‘t lock your door.‖
―I didn‘t? Huh. I‘m usually good about things like that.‖ He gasped, pointing at
a crumpled wrapper from Taco Bell. ―Oh no! The Nondenom Ninjas stole your nachos!‖
Dave glowered. He almost wished the ring had been stolen, so he could really
unleash his frustration.
―Chill out,‖ Gordon said. ―Are your coaching clothes really that priceless?
Diamonds on the soles of your cleats?‖
Dave bit his tongue, trying to calm himself down.
―Sorry, dude. I‘ll be more careful next time.‖
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Trust me, Dave thought. There‘s not going to be a next time.
―Why do you worry about clothing?‖ quoted Gordon, attempting to lighten the
mood. ―Consider the lilies of the field. They do not toil or spin, yet not even Solomon
was dressed like one of these. The Sermon on the Mount, Matthew Six.‖
A companion of fools shall be destroyed, thought Dave. Proverbs Thirteen.
Gordon tuned the radio to the local Christian station, 106.5 The Ark. ―Your
shelter in the storm,‖ the DJ announced. ―Worship, Contemporary, even a little Rock and
Roll — everything under a single roof. Safe enough for the kids, but sane enough for
their parents.‖ He mentioned an upcoming concert by Caedmon‘s Call, speaking over the
opening bars of a praise chorus, a classic hymn that a chart-topping band had reworked.
Dave still preferred the original.
―My favorite,‖ said Gordon, ―is Two by Tuesday.‖
―A lot of stations have Two for Tuesday, you know.‖
―But not Two by Tuesday. Like the animals, get it?‖
Dave cut through downtown Midfield, a wasteland on Thursday night, hoping to
save some time. They sat at a red light near the county courthouse. Across the street, a
man in a hooded sweatshirt slept on a bench. The park‘s fountain had been emptied for
the season.
That past July, he and Beth sat on the same bench after North by Northwest at the
downtown cinema, which screened classic films on summer evenings. The hipsters
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rolled their eyes, but a sold-out weekend of Singin’ in the Rain would bankroll a
Kurosawa retrospective.
A homeless woman had approached them. Dave ignored her request, but Bethany
wanted to offer a little cash — enough for a snack — and directions to the local shelter.
―Enough for a Shlitz,‖ Dave remarked, after his bill and the woman had
disappeared. ―Maybe a six-pack, if she‘s lucky.‖
―You don‘t know that.‖ Beth‘s response was deliberate, something she‘d planned
to say for a while. ―You make up your mind about people. You don‘t give them a
chance to surprise you.‖
The Ark transitioned to a new song, ―This Is the Air I Breathe,‖ which Gordon
linked back to Bon Jovi — its striking resemblance to ―I‘ll Be There For You.‖ He had
written a chapel sermon about the two works, hoping to contrast the sexual lust in the
power ballad with the authentic love of Christ. Gordon listed the parallels: lyrics that
overlapped, similar metaphors, even a random shout that provided a connection. If
Stratham nixed the idea, he would post the comparison on his blog — The Plumbline. It
sounded like a stretch to David, a convenient excuse to blast 80s rock in the MCA
auditorium.
Their senior year, his friend Patrick had written and produced a legendary chapel
service. The spectacle claimed to illustrate the dangers of the New Age Movement and
its antecedents in hippie culture, but the sketches were also a pretext for wearing
bohemian costumes in elaborate dance numbers — ―The Age of Aquarius‖ and other
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songs from Hair. You could get away with most anything, as long as you tacked a lesson
or ―application‖ to the conclusion.
II. The High Life
Gordon described a future Plumbline entry about Speaking in Tongues, thoughts
that had stemmed from a heated debate in his devotional section. Spiritual Gifts were a
dangerous topic at MCA, which drew students from a wide range of denominations. The
Charismatic pupils were a distinct minority, but they were . . . well, charismatic.
Teachers were instructed to avoid certain topics for the sake of unity: Anointing with Oil,
Glossalalia, being Slain by the Spirit. It was MCA‘s form of ―Don‘t Ask, Don‘t Tell‖:
you could be Pentecostal, as long as you didn‘t raise a fuss. Save your energy for Sunday
mornings.
The students were eager to debate the issue, since it made the teachers
uncomfortable. In fact, Dave recalled, there was a well-worn exchange among boys in
the locker room, sexual innuendo with a religious twist.
―What‘s your Spiritual Gift?‖
―Tongues.‖
―Mine‘s the Laying on of Hands.‖
It wasn‘t as funny as he remembered. Besides, now that he thought about it, the
boys who told the joke were never Pentecostal themselves. It wasn‘t exactly racist
humor, but it worked in a similar vein.
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Bethany attended a fairly Charismatic church, far less restrained than the
corporate celebration at Maple Park. It wasn‘t an issue they had discussed, not in depth,
but they needed to broach the subject — their budding TBN remake of West Side Story or
Romeo & Juliet. Star-crossed lovers: citizens of the same metropolis, the City of God,
but devoted to rival houses of worship.
At Maple Park, the praise band stuck to the plan. You sang the lyrics, repeated
the chorus a few times — acapella at the end, with dignified clapping to hold the tempo
— and sat down after a few songs. If too many folks started raising their hands, the
worship leader teased, the ceiling fans might have to be lowered. He told the joke once a
season, grinning beneath his wireless headset and perfectly gelled coif. At Bethany‘s
church, on the other hand, an eight-line song could trigger a fifteen minute jam session.
New verses would be improvised, guitar solos mixing with shouts of joy throughout the
congregation. It was the difference between listening to Top 40 radio and dancing at a
Phish concert.
When they really got excited, Bethany‘s crowd could go wild. People raced up
and down the aisles, crying and laughing and even rolling on the floor. During revivals,
one of the deacons brought a massive broadsword to the meetings — something straight
out of medieval Scotland. He swung the weapon in circles about his head, like a sports
fan waving a towel to incite the crowd.
A debate about Glossalalia? What was Gordon thinking? How did it even
surface, given the limited confines of a devotional section?
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Every morning, the students at MCA gathered in small groups from 8:15 until
8:30, before they scattered to first-period and began the academic day. It was an
impossible task for the teacher, striving for spiritual depth in those opening minutes.
Dave followed a standard procedure: he took attendance, read a verse, and wrote prayer
requests on the board.
Their petitions were predictable. A handful of sick relatives, guidance about a
tough college decision, and a string of ―Unspoken‖ requests: problems too scandalous for
public knowledge, but too juicy to keep to themselves. To remind the less popular
students about gossip they didn‘t know.
He scratched each desire in chalk, taking orders at a Spiritual Drive-Thru: ―One
Healing, two Unspokens & a Praise.‖
―Something from the Value Menu? A side order of Prosperity? Maybe some
ninety-nine cent Wisdom? Would you like to Super-Size your Blessing today?‖
Gordon, on the other hand, saw the quarter hour as a challenge. Like Iron Chef,
he explained. If a chapel sermon could be a novel, then his devotions were opportunities
for poetry: short and direct, with little wasted space.
―Nothing extra. Nothing but the good stuff.‖ In fact, he said, he thought of the
lessons as Miller Light. ―Light, as in the Candle on a Hill; and Light, as in less filling
than a complete message. But they still satisfy and go down smooth. So it‘s a double
meaning, like a poem.‖
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He got the idea from a student, one day when the section was out of control. The
G— M— was struggling to win their attention, when Mark Howard shouted from the
back: ―Quiet, you fools: it‘s Miller Time!‖
Not that he let Mark know his inspiration. After all, he didn‘t want to encourage a
fascination with alcohol. ―We‘re held more accountable as teachers,‖ he insisted. ―Like
Christ said, ‗whoever leads one of these little ones astray—‘‖
―They‘ll find their way to a six pack,‖ Dave assured him, ―with or without your
support.‖
Gordon shook his head. ―It would be better for a millstone to be hung from his
neck and cast into the sea.‖
In sermons, the preacher would pause to emphasize the size and weight of these
massive stones. Historical details that provided shock value, rather than spiritual
illumination. The passage always reminded Dave of gangster clichés about ―cement
shoes.‖ The disciples gathering on an ill-lit bridge, dragging a Pharisee from the trunk of
their chariot — helping him to the bottom of the Jordan River.
Over time, Gordon had expanded his portfolio, like a brewery that rolled out new,
innovative drafts. The Beatitudes were Christ‘s Genuine Truth, the CGT. Proverbs were
The High Life.
The champagne of devotions, thought Dave. ―How do you keep them apart?‖
The G— M— shrugged. ―I don‘t know. I invent the names as I go, like half the
nonsense that pops from this mouth.‖
―What about The Beast?‖
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The question brought confusion, then a muddled explanation of inexpensive beers
and the nicknames for Milwaukee‘s Best. ―About the only brand we could afford,‖ Dave
said, ―if we were actually allowed to drink.‖
Gordon was relieved. ―You had me worried for a second. I thought you were
talking about the Anti-Christ.‖
III. Parking Lot Confessional
The G— M— scuffed his foot on the asphalt. Gathering his nerve, Dave
suspected, preparing some new comment or admission.
They had already survived a minor catastrophe, when Gordon learned they forgot
to buy milk. ―I‘ll survive,‖ Dave insisted. ―I‘ve got frozen waffles in the fridge.‖ But
the oversight had been deliberate. Everything from Wal-Mart had to travel to Tennessee.
Opening the apartment would trigger a fresh round of compulsive behavior.
His colleague had been quiet, those last miles to Shady Grove. Wrestling with
something hidden, probably the question that now kept him fidgeting in the lot. Like a
nervous teen, trying to work up the courage to ask a girl out.
―I want you to know,‖ he started. ―I want you to know, I‘m happy for you. And
I‘m glad that you told me. Really glad.‖ Gordon raised his head and looked Dave in the
eye, then returned his gaze to the ground.
―I probably shouldn‘t admit it. I mean, you‘re going to think I‘m strange. But
I‘ve always had a small crush on Bethany. She‘s such a strong woman. And beautiful,
inside and out. Like when she speaks about her mission trips to Guatemala, with the
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slides, and the Vacation Bible School for the rural kids and the service projects. You can
see her love of Christ, the heart she has for those children.‖
Dave was silent. He intended to let him finish, to get the complete admission out
of his system. But it wasn‘t a surprise. Bethany had sensed the infatuation for months.
It was cute, she insisted, and Gordon had always treated her with respect.
Once she pointed it out, Dave noticed the clues. The earnest support for her
proposals in teacher meetings. The way Gordon would stare at her, transfixed, as she
sang with the chapel choir. Even his interest in their relationship. But she was
exaggerating, he thought. He chalked it to vanity, her belief she inspired that deep a
passion. Now, as his colleague fumbled the confession, he had to admit she was right.
―To be honest,‖ said Gordon, ―I didn‘t think you‘d make it as a couple. I figured
you‘d panic, that you wouldn‘t understand the jackpot you‘d scored. Either that, or Beth
would finally see through your charade.‖ He grinned, attempting to draw a smile in
response. ―Don‘t worry, I‘m not going to try anything desperate. I‘m not gonna ask her
out, now that I‘ve admitted my feelings. I just wanted you to know — since we‘re
Cordmates and all.‖
―I appreciate your honesty.‖
―It‘s great that she loves you. It‘s great that you‘re getting married.‖ A look of
panic crossed his face. ―You‘ll still invite me to the wedding, won‘t you?‖
Dave assured Gordon that he‘d be invited. And like that, they had their first
guest. The vows inched a step closer.
Gordon was growing more and more self-conscious. He had revealed more than
he intended. ―Dave—‖
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―Don‘t worry about it, Gordon.‖
―You won‘t say anything? Not to Bethany?‖
―Of course not,‖ Dave lied.
―You‘re not offended, are you?‖
―Why would I be offended? Shouldn‘t I take it as a compliment?‖ But he didn‘t.
It bothered him, Gordon acting like he‘d have a shot with Bethany, if only his friend
weren‘t standing in the way. That the situation would be reversed if he‘d acted on his
feelings. That Beth would have given him a chance. Which disturbed Dave. Because
the woman he married, she ought to be out of The G—M—‘s league.
―You sure we‘re okay?‖ asked Gordon. ―You look like you‘re upset.‖
―I‘m sure.‖
―I enjoyed our evening.‖ Gordon smiled. ―It was like we were friends, rather
than colleagues.‖
―We are friends.‖ He spotted his chance to escape, now that his colleague was
embarrassed, eager to finish the awkward exchange. ―Get out of here, before I change
my mind.‖ He turned to his own stairwell, enacting his role in the charade.
―Good night, Dave,‖ called The G— M—. ―I‘ll see you tomorrow.‖
Dave raised his hand in response, but he didn‘t say a word.
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Recluse: Reprise
Thursday Evening, 11:30 PM
October 14, 2010
Dave stands on the lawn, wary of the wooden swing. The fixture has seen better
years. The slats have splintered, and its chains leave streaks of rust on the palms. It
looks best from a distance, surrounded by elms and pines. The apartment brochures often
feature the setting: snapshots of happy couples, rocking together in wool sweaters on fall
afternoons. They promise companionship, an irresistible amenity — far more enticing
than the musty exercise room.
Over a year ago, on a September afternoon, they rocked on the swing for the first
time. Nervous and awkward, he asked Beth to the Homecoming Banquet: ―If you‘d be
interested, I mean.‖
―Of course I‘d be interested,‖ she answered.
The Banquet was their official ―coming out‖ to the school, the date they would
use when measuring how long they‘d been together. ―If you‘d be interested‖ became one
of their favorite inside jokes: ―I‘d like to hold your hand . . . if you‘d be interested.‖
―There‘s a new movie at the Cineplex . . . if you‘d be interested.‖ ―You‘ve got
something hanging from your nose . . . if you‘d be interested.‖ The catchphrase had lost
its appeal — like ―Don‘t Have a Cow, Man‖ or ―Where‘s the Beef?‖ Still, he would
probably feature it in his proposal.
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It was the swing where he stretched his arm around her shoulders, the same spot
where he leaned close — several months later — for that first, awkward smooch. The
kiss had occurred that past January, during an afternoon of winter fun. Building a snow
man on the lawn, then snuggling together in the frigid air.
They have spent evenings watching the dusk settle, catching fireflies and slapping
at mosquitoes. He has avoided the setting for months, now that Beth finds significance in
every location they visit.
It is a dangerous place: a swing rife with clichés.
But Dave is not thinking about clichés. He is fretting about privacy, trying to
determine if the swing is open.
He has been skulking about the dark lawn, carrying his bags from Wal-Mart. He
glances at Gordon‘s apartment, where the lights are still on, the drapes open. Every few
minutes, a silhouette will appear at the window, keeping watch over lot by night.
Dave wants to perform a ritual, some type of prayer or gesture that can inaugurate
the trip. But the park is dark, the swing hidden from view. He moves toward it,
tentative, afraid that he‘ll spoil a midnight tryst. That he‘ll ruin a symbolic moment for
someone else.
The leaves on the ground thicken. He steps with a crunch.
―Who‘s there?‖ The woman‘s voice is laced with fear. ―Gary?‖
―Sorry,‖ Dave mutters. He steps backward, retreating into the darkness.
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Dave lies down on the grass, staring at the constellations, and thinks about
Abraham in the desert: the night sky, and a patriarch counting his descendants. A song
by Rich Mullins runs through Dave‘s head.
Some of these stars have already died. The eruption into a supernova, the
collapse upon its own center, now events of the distant past. Their light has been racing
through time and space, passing the heliopause, the outer reaches of the solar system,
long after the source expired.
Was Abraham fooled? He didn‘t have the Hubble to number his offspring.
Though the air quality — it would have been better in ancient Palestine.
Five millennia was modest sum, given the lifespan of a universe. Did Abraham
ever count the light of expired stars? Did he name a great-grandson that had already
ceased to exist?
Is that the way of God‘s prophecies? By the time you discover the promise, the
power behind it has gone?
Another cliché, this whole ―light of a dead star‖ trope. Still, he pictures himself
next to Abraham, two patriarchs in Western Ohio, absorbing the same lifeless rays. Both
misled, both mistaken.
A couple strolls through the clearing. They stop near Dave, whispering to one
another. The girl takes a shallow gasp.
―What?‖ her friend asks.
―There‘s somebody on the lawn. Over there — a body — you can barely see it.‖
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The friend steps closer.
―Be careful, Gary,‖ the girl whispers. ―There was a man lurking in the park.
Earlier tonight, when I waited for you at the swing.‖
―You shouldn‘t be out here alone, not at night.‖
Dave braces himself, prepared to flee.
―Who‘s there?‖ Gary waits for a response, then calls again. ―Coward,‖ he
mutters. ―Asshole pervert.‖
Their whispers fade. The grass is cool on Dave‘s neck and back.
Gordon‘s curtains are shut, his apartment finally dark. Dave still feels hunted.
A set of eyes in the grove. A yellow glow that fades as the creature retreats from
view. A roaring lion, seeking what it may devour.
Be watchful. Be vigilant. First Peter 5:8.
Time to drive.
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Review Problem – Section II
Geometry – Mr. Kingman
Extra Credit
Name: _____________________________
Richard Gunn, a private investigator, has tracked a stolen necklace to an apartment in
the Shady Grove complex. The only problem? He cannot spot the bedroom in the thirdfloor apartment he suspects—not from the ground, at least. Fortunately, there is a large
evergreen on the front lawn with branches at one foot intervals — convenient for both
Gunn and our calculations.
Suppose the apartment is 20 feet off the ground, the window ledge is 3 feet above the
apartment floor, and the jewelry box is stored on a shelf 6 feet high at the back of a
bedroom that’s fifteen feet deep. (See diagram) The spruce is 40 feet away from the
building. How high does Gunn need to climb to see into the apartment and survey the
closet?
Closet Shelf (E)
Window (C)
B
D
Bedroom (BD)
Branches set at
One-foot intervals
1
A
1
AA = 40’
Drawing Approximate,
not to Scale
A
1
A B = 20’
BC = 3’
BD = 15’
DE = 6’
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SECTION III: LEAPS OF FAITH
In which the teacher drifts south, obsessing on space travel and student evaluations.
One Small Step for Matt — Neil Armstrong — A Heavenly Foursome — Cut & Paste —
The Age of Cold Feet — Take Me To Your Litre — Nearby Attractions — EagleNet —
The Aerie — Twelve Bucks an Hour — YourChildsASlacker.com — Like A Sick Game of
Dodgeball — ―A‖ Stands for ―Effort‖ — Rachel’s Contribution — Sisyphus in the
Classroom — Southern Drift — On Silos —Bored Games —―R.O.U.S.? I don’t think
they exist.‖ — Princess Redwood — Fischer College — The Philippians4.8 Firewall —
Winesburg, Ohio — Mission Control — Review Problem, Section III
Interstate 75
Midfield ●
Lima ●
Wapakoneta ●
Ohio
Dave
Interstate 70
LENGTH: 43.8 miles on I-75, from Wapakoneta, Ohio, to the outskirts of Dayton.
HIGHLIGHTS: Biblical figures at play; an essay on silos.
CAUTIONS: Terrible puns; obscure facts about small Christian colleges.
TRAILHEAD: Interstate 75, a mile north of Exit 111 (Wapakoneta, Ohio).
Friday morning, 1:10 A.M. October 15, 2010
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One Small Step for Matt
Friday Morning, 12:25 AM
October 15, 2010
Two sets of lights ran along the low ridge. Blue and symmetric, they failed to
converge — rent by the black sphere rose from the earth. A glow from Wapakoneta
backlit its silhouette.
A lunar eclipse, thought Dave. The dark side of the moon.
The dome was actually white, a planetarium. The Neil Armstrong Air & Space
Museum. He had visited the attraction twice: as a student first, then a reluctant
chaperone.
The exhibits were housed underground. Only the ceiling pierced the surface of
the planet. Its concrete swell parted about the orb. Like that famous picture of a
lighthouse in the North Sea, a wave breaking against its foundation.
Like wings. In a certain slant of light, the complex resembled the Golden Snitch.
The Neil Armstrong Air & Space Museum (Photo by Ron Lambert)
149
The hillside itself was a fake, molded by dozers and men driving trucks. A door
opened into the artificial mound, a portal beneath the Earth‘s crust. Like a mine shaft. A
barrow. A museum constructed by hobbits.
The comparisons were forced. Yet Dave persisted, fishing for symbols of his
journey in the passing landscape.
None of this could be seen from the interstate, not at night. The planetarium
hovered, floating in darkness. Blue lights traced the roof to each side.
Not wings, but tethers. As if the sphere was an alien craft, desperate to return
home.
It was supposed to look like a moon base. During their tour, the guide had praised
its design and creation. How the locals resolved to honor their hero, the young man
turned national legend. How the funding was gathered by civic leaders and elementary
students, doctors and farmers and girl scouts troupes. The building was a tribute to
Wapakoneta itself: a merit badge for the humble town that had raised and nurtured this
outstanding child.
Which contained a touch of irony, given the feat at the museum‘s core — that
remarkable hour when Homo sapiens wandered on lunar terrain. Because the spectacle
harbored an ancient theme: boy leaves home for newer, more exotic pastures. With one
small step, Neil traveled farther from his roots, geographically speaking, than anyone else
in history. The ultimate prodigal son.
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Could you actually bury a moon base? Dave wondered. How would you transport
the drilling equipment or bore into alien strata? What fell beasts would Bruce Willis
release, that devoured his ramshackle crew?
―The Eagle has landed.‖ He tried to construct an allegory: himself, an MCA
Eagle, in search of Tranquility Base. The effort rang hollow. ―Correct that,‖ he said.
―The Eagle has left the building.‖
No matter. The landing craft always disturbed him. Its struts were too fragile and
skeletal to support the lunar module. The vessel seemed aloof, wary of contact with
foreign soil. We‘ll stop and visit, the design implied, but not for long. We‘re charting a
loop trail.
The museum was a launch pad, not a base — the sphere poised to depart. Once
again, the idea was forced, this attempt to mirror his flight in a roadside attraction.
The truth was dull. The planetarium looked like the moon itself, peering above
the horizon. Or a massive golf ball that lodged in the earth, a wedge shot the titans had
lost in the rough.
On the Eight Day, God Invented Golf
The foursome stands on a desert mesa, an elevated tee in southeast Utah.
God the Father, Moses, Jesus, Elijah. Angels as caddies, but no carts, not even
flaming chariots.
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They aim at the far side of the continent. Manhattan, Boston, or a pin
location in Montreal. A target protected by water.
Moses hits last, after his bogey in the Sierra Madre. ―Don‘t strike it too
hard,‖ the Father warns. ―Remember that boulder in Sinai?‖
Moses tightens his grip and addresses the ball. A sidewinder rattles. A
jackrabbit flushes from the underbrush. He glares at the Creator. Gabriel stifles a
laugh.
―Sorry,‖ God says. ―I‘ll stop.‖
The instant Moses swings, a volcano explodes in the Tetons.
―Dagnabbit, Lord,‖ he shouts, and slams his club to the earth. But his shot
clears the San Juans, rising over Kansas.
―That‘ll carry,‖ Jesus notes. ―You‘re across the Mississippi.‖
―Sure, probably lost in Appalachia.‖
―No,‖ Gabriel says, ―you‘re on the fairway. Indiana, maybe Ohio.‖
―Doesn‘t matter. I‘m taking a mulligan.‖ Moses tees a second ball, then
glares at his Lord. ―We said no earthquakes.‖
―Wasn‘t an earthquake,‖ the Father responds. ―Who is this that darkens my
foursome with words without knowledge? Brace yourself like a pro. I will
question you, and you shall answer me.‖
―Don‘t even try that defense. Pulling leviathan by a sand wedge? Save it
for Job.‖
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―I will,‖ God answers. ―We‘re playing next Tuesday.‖
Moses ignores the Almighty and readies another shot. A few yards away,
cacti burst into flame. Over Phoenix, amphibians rain from the sky.
Moses hits, and the foursome moves along, discussing the upcoming holes:
a dogleg though Canada, then a par three across the Bering Strait.
As they pass Lake Erie, Gabriel scans the horizon for the lost ball. But he
doesn‘t linger. Christ is telling a story about Peter, something you wouldn‘t want
to miss.
A golf ball. How would the curators react, faced with such blasphemy?
With resignation, Dave supposed. They probably heard a similar comment twice
a week. There was nothing new under the sun, not even an imitation moon.
A zit. That‘s what Zach Taylor had answered, when the guide asked the seventh
graders about the building. His comment rendered her speechless.
Back on the bus, Zach closed an eye and pinched the white sphere between his
fingers. He squeezed, made a noise with his lips, and popped the planetarium. Girls
shrieked, and boys aped his charade.
Dave slouched in the seat and lamented his fate. How had the day gone so awry?
Fridays were supposed to be easy, supervising groups as they worked on review
problems. He should have been lounging at his desk, feet propped on one corner, lobbing
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hints toward each cluster of students. Instead, he was stuck on a bus with a junior high
class, overwhelmed by the odor of preteen boys. And it was all Bethany‘s fault.
Catch & Release
She had blasted into his classroom that morning, waving a clipboard of
permission slips. Wearing her lucky MCA visor, so students could spot her in
public locations. ―A chapeau for chaperoning,‖ she called it.
Bethany was the Field Trip Coordinator for the entire Junior High, due to
her organizational prowess — her fondness for schedules, agendas, and lists.
―Miss Fields runs the Field Trips,‖ her students were fond of noting, amused by
the trite coincidence.
―Want to go to the moon?‖ she asked.
―What?‖
―The moon. If you want to get technical, The Neil Armstrong Air and
Space Museum. Mr. Kraft backed out at the last minute, and I need another
chaperone. A male.‖
This was April of 2009. They weren‘t dating, not yet, but they had been
flirting for almost a year. ―So you‘re after me for my sex?‖ he whispered, hoping
to appall her. To be the rebellious half of their dysfunctional duo.
She surprised him with a wink. ―Don‘t worry,‖ she said. ―One-day stand.
Catch and release only.‖
The answer threw him off guard, and he gestured about the room: ―What
about—‖
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―Johnson will cover your classes.‖
The Vice-Principal. Dave raised his eyebrows, curious how she‘d swung
that bargain. In the front row, a few students grumbled. Their day had taken a
turn for the worse.
―But we‘re—‖ He fumbled for an excuse.
―You‘re what? Completing review problems?‖ She leaned closer and
grinned, pleased at her inside scoop. The scent of apples carried from her hair: a
favorite shampoo from Bath and Body Works, he would later learn. ―You‘re
more predictable than you think, Mr. Kingman. Every Friday, it‘s group work &
review problems.‖
―But how did you—‖
―I hired a P.I.‖ She laughed at his double-take. ―I looked at your calendar.
On EagleNet. A bit fond of the cut & paste, don‘t you think?‖
Matt Warren knocked on the bus door. He was late, having slipped out of line to
use the rest room. To use the rest room, wander the gift shop, touch the Gemini replica,
and stare with longing at the Moon Machete.
Beth had warned him about Matthew.
The engine was already running. The driver shot an annoyed look at Dave. Mrs.
Praeger was not impressed with his performance. He let the students sing nonreligious
songs, failed to control the racket, and — in the coup de grace — allowed Rebecca
Cooper to sit with Miles Wainwright, her boyfriend of the week, in direct violation of the
MCA guidelines for gendered seating. Now, to add insult to fornication, a random
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student was outside her bus, trying to get aboard, when Dave had assured her — not two
minutes prior — that his entire list was present and accounted for.
She pulled the lever and opened the door. Matt stuck his head into the bus. ―I
thought you counted?‖ she asked.
―I must have missed one.‖
Matt climbed the first step and stopped. ―But you‘re a math teacher,‖ he said, ―in
the high school. You should know how to count.‖
―We use calculators.‖ Dave gestured for him to hurry. ―Come on. We almost
left you in Wapakoneta.‖ He shuddered, envisioning Stratham‘s tirade. It was the core
principle of field trips: No Child Left Behind.
―But Miss Fields is in the museum. She said to remind you to wait.‖
―Miss Fields?‖ asked Praeger. ―Didn‘t she come on the other bus?‖
―She‘s taking this one back,‖ insisted Matt.
Dave avoided the driver‘s questioning gaze in rearview mirror. Forgetting a
student was bad enough, but your girlfriend? A new pinnacle of incompetence.
Beth wasn‘t his girlfriend, of course. They were friends, met for dinner on
occasion, and flirted in the halls. But they weren‘t dating.
The technicality was irrelevant, at least to the general public, who saw the liaison
they wanted to see. Flirt with a teacher, and you date the entire school. One student
spots you at Chili‘s, and the next day, the Art class is drawing your wedding
announcements.
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Not if he stranded her in Wapakoneta, at the Neil Armstrong Air & Space
Museum. That could nip their relationship in the bud.
The Age of Cold Feet
Later, once they were ―officially‖ dating, Beth labeled these months ―The
Age of Cold Feet.‖ She described them as torture, knowing that Dave was
interested, but worried he might be a tease. That he was toying with her
emotions, biding his time and waiting for more attractive prospects. She dreaded
the new teachers: a fresh crop each August, with immaculate clothes and perky
hair, arriving from Cedarville, Fisher, Mount Vernon Nazarene.
She almost took the first step. But she wavered, given MCA‘s stance on
gender roles.
The words of Paul loomed across centuries, thrown at a broad
canvas. Like an overhead projector, where a single page can be stretched and
distorted, magnified onto the classroom wall. The man should initiate the
relationship, just as Christ, the lover of the Church, pursued the union with His
bride.
―Which sounds great in theory,‖ she informed Dave. ―But it sucks in
practice.‖ All too often, the woman suffers in patience, praying her man will stop
waffling.
―While the women shoot down potential suitors,‖ he countered. Simply
because they don‘t match preconceived notions.
At least the students were safe. They gave dating advice the same attention
as rules about chewing gum, sermon notes, and the dress code.
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―You‘re missing the point,‖ Beth said. ―I don‘t mind the principle or the
symbolism. It‘s the wait, hoping the man will grow a spine.‖
―Would you prefer Ruth‘s approach?‖ he asked. ―Spot a man, flirt at the
harvest, and slip onto a corner of his bed?‖ How long did Israel suffer, waiting
for the Messiah? How long has the Church watched the skies?
―I get that,‖ she said. ―But you‘re dodging the issue.‖ Sometimes a
metaphor reaches its limit. Or it gets misapplied, used to justify indecision. A
warrant for cruel behavior.
She ceased her advance, but he knew her concluding thought, a maxim she
picked up in childhood: there are times, she would argue, you just need to poop or
get off the pot.
Beth emerged from the building, moving with purpose.
―Here she comes,‖ Matt said. He was still on the first step.
―Come on,‖ Dave said. ―Hurry up.‖
―But I‘m the Door Matt. Get it?‖
Dave sighed and rolled his eyes. ―I get it. Now find a seat.‖
Matt placed his foot on the next level. ―That‘s one small step for Matt—‖
―One giant leap for nerdkind.‖ The comment escaped before Dave could check
himself. The observation was quiet, but a handful of students caught the slight. It passed
down the aisle.
Praeger‘s scowl deepened. Flaunting the rules was bad enough. Mocking an
awkward kid, already a target for bullies? A circle of hell awaits teachers like that.
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But Matt took the insult in stride. ―One small step for nerdkind. That‘s a good
one, Mr. Kingman.‖ In a bold move, one that bumped Miss Fields to the back of the bus,
he slid next to Dave on the seat.
Before Dave could object, Matt had removed a book from a plastic bag, a
souvenir from the gift shop, and began to skim its pages. ―Hey, Mr. Kingman. Why was
the astronaut hungry?‖
Dave grimaced at his penance. ―I don‘t know. Why?‖
―Launch time had been delayed.‖ The bombardment commenced. ―Why did the
astronaut get a ticket? / His parking meteor expired. Why did the astronaut go to the
lumber yard? / He wanted to buy some moon beams.‖
Bethany passed this odd pair with a curious smile. Dave thought of a joke that
Grandpa had taught him: ―If athletes get athlete‘s foot, what do astronauts get?‖
Matthew was stumped. ―Astronaut‘s feet?‖
―Missile toe.‖
―Good one. Here‘s one about math, just for you: What does a metric astronaut
say? / Take me to your liter.‖
―Take me to your liter. That‘s all right.‖ Dave resisted the urge to tousle the
student‘s hair, Grandpa‘s standard response to corny jokes. These days, affectionate
gestures brought lawsuits.
In less than ten minutes, Matt had exhausted his new material. So he launched
into a monologue about interstellar travel and extraterrestrial life, the space trilogy of
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C.S. Lewis, whether dinosaurs could live on the moon, and how the museum got the
wrong date for the solar system‘s origin.
Bethany watched from the back, delighted. ―At first I was disappointed,‖ she
admitted, months later, ―but it was actually a gift. When I saw the way you were talking
with Matthew, listening to him — the way you laughed with this child who drove me
insane. Well, that‘s when I knew.‖
―Knew what?‖ asked Dave, a knot in his stomach.
Bethany shrugged. She just smiled and squeezed his hand.
Knew what? Dave wondered. The blue lights had long disappeared. He passed
signs for Botkins, then Anna and Sidney. Knew that she liked him? That she found him
attractive?
How much had she determined, observing him from the rear? Did he have any
say in the matter, or was he simply a pawn? Had his future been formed on a secondhand bus, amid terrible puns and Zach Taylor‘s farts?
He didn‘t buy the story. Bethany wasn‘t blind. He had struggled to keep awake
as Matt rambled. It was simply a convenient narrative, used to justify her nefarious
plans. Nothing about those yawns revealed his merit.
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Nearby Attractions
Bowling Green (42 miles north of Midfield on I-75)
∙ The Wood County Historical Museum occupies the site of a
former Poor Farm. Its many displays include a 1947 permanent
wave machine, projects from the local 4-H club, Victorian-era hair
art, a jar with human fingers, and a bird shot by Clark Gable. The
pleasant grounds feature an herb garden, a Boomtown District with
blacksmith shop and oil derrick, the Lyle Fletcher Arboretum, and
many authentic structures, including three barns (Pole, Corn, Hog),
the lunatic asylum, and the ice house.
∙ Snook’s Dream Cars
Findlay (18 miles north)
∙ A highlight of the Hancock Historical Museum is Captain
Sigsbee‘s enameled-steel bathtub from the USS Maine. It also
contains the Crawford Log House & exhibits on the 1880s Gas/Oil
Boom.
∙ The Mazza Museum, an art gallery devoted to children‘s
illustration.
∙ Ghost Town Museum Park
Lima (16 miles south)
∙ The eclectic contents of the Allen County Museum
include an impressive, full-room model of Mt. Vernon,
a replica of Dillinger‘s jail cell, a Conestoga wagon, a
1909 Locomobile Sports Roadster, a collection of
deceased albino animals, a 1903 Kodak ―Mugging‖
Camera, a double-cradle, a hall of buttons, a
mechanized reproduction of Noah‘s Ark, and an
assortment of objects swallowed (accidently) by
Ohioans, collected by Dr. Yingling.
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Wapakoneta (30 miles south of Midfield)
∙ Some of the many exhibits at The Neil Armstrong Air & Space Museum are a Space
Shuttle landing simulator, the Gemini 8 Space Capsule, Armstrong‘s Gemini and Apollo
space suits, a replica of the Sputnik satellite, a moon rock, the Astro-theater, and the moon
machete.
∙ The Temple of Tolerance is an imposing rock garden that has overwhelmed several
backyards in a local neighborhood.
Additional Curiosities . . .
∙ Home of America‘s first gas-powered automobile (Ohio City)
∙ Bicycle Museum of America (New Bremen)
∙ The Shrine of the Holy Relics, including a nail from the crucifix, thorn from
the crown, and shards from the cradle (Maria Stein)
∙ The oldest concrete street in the world, and McKinley Street, the shortest street
in North America (Bellefountaine)
∙ Mac-O-Chee and Mac-A-Cheek, The Piatt Castles (West Liberty)
∙ Annie Oakley Memorial Plaza (Greenville) and Gravesite (Brock)
∙ The world‘s largest loaf of bread (Urbana)
The region features a wide array of State Parks (Grand Lake Saint Marys, Indian Lake,
Kiser Lake, Lake Loramie, Van Buren) and State Memorials (Forts Amanda, Jefferson, &
Recovery; Lochington Locks). Other attractions include Bruckner Nature Center, Cedar Bog
Nature Preserve, Garby‘s Big Woods Reserve and Sanctuary, Logan County Historical
Museum, Ohio Caverns, the Piqua Historic District, the Robert Rothschild Farm, Stillwater
Prairie Reserve, the Troy-Hayes Cultural Center, and Zane Shawnee Caverns.
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Notes — EagleNet
―I looked at your Course Calendar. On EagleNet.‖
Bethany Fields, ―Catch & Release‖
EagleNet: a course management system that enables MCA teachers to post
assignments, grades, and lesson plans on the school‘s website. According to the
administration, the program ―reduces paper use by 15%‖ and ―increases both student
accountability and teacher accessibility.‖
Which was fine and well, if you wanted to be accessible. Dave preferred to
remain elusive. As a matter of principle, a load-bearing pillar of his pedagogy.
Catch me if you can, he challenged his students. Run the race that is set before
you, and seize this education for yourselves. But watch your grip: wisdom‘s a slippery
bastard. Not to mention its tendency to bite. The pearl of great price is guarded by
dragons.
They hunted the knowledge he offered, chasing cosines around the greyhound
track. They tripped on irrational numbers and tumbled down the rabbit hole, where the
Cheshire theorem sat perched on a branch of geometry, blowing non-Euclidean rings of
smoke.
Nonsense.
They weren‘t hunting knowledge: they had scholarships in their sights.
And he wasn‘t elusive: he was lazy.
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Most teachers embraced the program. Michelle Porter created a chat room for her
English classes. She posted links to the OED and facsimiles of Emily Dickinson‘s
manuscripts. Gordon streamed webcam footage from archeological digs throughout the
Holy Land, and his students could Skype with researchers in the field. They used Google
Earth to map Joshua‘s conquest of Canaan.
Bethany‘s efforts were social. With the yearbook staff, she maintained a photo
archive of MCA events: thousands of digital pictures, organized and tagged. Students
could access these files with their EagleID, then personalize their yearbooks. Some
purchased the volume designed by the staff, but many would alter the contents to fit their
interests — adding pages about the basketball season, while reducing the coverage of the
fall play. Did a two-timing boyfriend ruin your sophomore year? Bittersweet photos
were easily removed. Students could personalize a template and display their creations in
an online gallery: boasting about the track team, fawning over their no-longer-secret
crush, or claiming a stake in the eternal debate — Edward v. Jacob— that raged in the
MCA Twilight Forum.
Organizations embraced the function. The Student Senate ran spreads about its
service projects. The Senior Superlatives were awarded online: Best Smile, Heart for the
Nations, Cutest Couple, FRN (Future Republican Nominee), Hands of Hope, and Most
Likely to Homeschool a Dozen Kids, among others. The Aerie promoted Eagle Spirit
and sponsored a pretzel drive. And a number of MCA Missions trips used the site to
recruit participants: Bethany‘s Guatemala expedition, the church-construction crews
along the Mexican border, and The Normandy Invasion, four weeks of prayer,
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evangelism, and sightseeing in the French countryside that doubled — for many of the
seniors — as a de facto graduation present.
Most of these pages bored Dave to tears. But a handful surprised him. Jared
Banks had zero interest in postulates, yet he excelled at satire, pairing text from MCA
promo materials — boasts about the rigorous academics — with photos of students
caught napping at their desks. It took less than a day for his link to ―disappear.‖ In
response, he uploaded a self-portrait: his mouth covered with duct tape. The picture was
gone within hours. Stratham wanted to ditch the feature altogether, but the customized
books were a hit with the parents. Not to mention the students, who often created one to
give their family and another, more scandalous version for their friends — the same trick
they pulled with their Facebook accounts. In the end, a spiritual argument tipped the
scale: the longer a teen spent on EagleNet, the less time he surfed the secular web.
A subculture flourished. A way, Dave guessed, of testing the administration‘s
patience, but without the danger of breaking an ―official‖ rule. The Jim Tressel
Appreciation Squadron wore OSU sweater vests to chapel. Ninjas for Jesus posted blurry
photos of random locations on campus (since no half-decent ninja could actually be
captured on film). The Springs of Hebron Drinking Fountain of the Month Award — or
SoHDFotMA — conferred ―A one-of-a-kind hand-drawn certificate for the H2O
dispenser dedicated to providing a quality and quantity of water delivery that exceeds the
typical standards for beverage service.‖ Clubs sprouted like mold in the wrestling room.
Ryan Avery held the current record: founding six groups and thirteen awards in less than
a year.
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It wasn‘t her original intention, admitted Bethany, not when she first proposed the
archive. But it gave more and more students a chance to get involved. Kids that once
walked the halls as loners, they now attracted a following — at least in the digital world.
All of these efforts put Dave to shame. He checked EagleNet as little as possible,
and his course site was skeletal: a syllabus, calendar, and gradebook. The materials
stipulated by his contract, nothing more. He cut corners wherever possible, copying
plans from one unit to the next.
Cyber-stewardship: his personal quest to reduce, reuse, and recycle his digitalfootprint.
He endured the censure of parents, not to mention the students who trashed his
performance on Ratemyteacher.com. They complained about marks posted late, study
guides that didn‘t reveal the answers, and his failure to upload notes as Powerpoint slides.
―Powerpoint?‖ he told Gordon. ―If I could use Powerpoint, I wouldn‘t be stuck at
MCA.‖ His colleague began to explain the process, but Dave stopped him. ―I know how
to use Powerpoint. I‘m taking a stand, claiming the moral high ground. I make twelve
bucks an hour. Any time wasted on useless tasks, it simply dilutes the rate.‖
Gordon frowned at the low figure.
―Trust me,‖ said Dave. ―I‘ve done the math.‖
Are we doing this for the money? asked Gordon. What about treasure in heaven?
―Don‘t talk about jewels in the crown. Have you seen the cars that our students
drive?‖ Not to mention that no-union clause in the contract — their legally-binding
promise to focus on spiritual rewards. The ban was a fundraising boon, soothing the
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conservative donors. Gifts would be spent wisely, on building projects and new facilities,
not squandered on the faculty. The character of the teachers would be preserved, fortified
through their monk-like renunciation — the only lifestyle they could afford.
Powerpoint wasn‘t the issue. It was simply a handy club, something illtempered students could snatch and swing. Dave could teach Calculus with a
flannelgraph board, for all they cared — so long as their GPAs were unscathed.
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Twelve Bucks an Hour
Calculations by Dave Kingman
Yearly Salary: $21,400
Coaching Bonus: $1,200
Total Income from MCA: $22,600
Classroom Instruction & In-School Activities: 1012½ Hours
7:30 Staff Meeting – 3:00 Dismissal ( - 45 minute lunch) = 6¾ Hours
150 Days * 6¾ Hours = 1012½ Hours
Teacher In-Service: 50+ Hours
10 Days * 5+ Hours = 50+ Hours
Out-of-Class Work (Grading & Course Prep): 300+ Hours
Two Hours per Day
Coaching: 260+ Hours
Preseason Two-A-Days: 10 * 6+ Hours = 60
Practices: 4/week * 10+ weeks * 2½+ Hours = 100
Games: @ 20 Games * 5+ Hours = 100
(1½ Hours Travel, 1½ Hours Pregame, 2 Hours Game & Postgame)
Miscellaneous School Events & other Mandatory Functions: 150+ Hours
Parent-Teacher Conferences
Committee Work
Cord Meetings
School Banquets & Parent Potlucks
Class Retreats
Discipleship Institute
Total Hours Worked: 1,772.5
Per-Hour Salary: $22,600 / 1,772.5 Hours = $12.75
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YourChildsASlacker.com
―. . . why he chose math, he describes the subject with such disinterest. I don‘t even
know why he became a teacher, he treats his students with such disdain.‖
Anonymous, Online Review of Mr. David Kingman (Algebra II)
Most of the complaints were banal: the lectures are boring, or the problems are
too repetitive. Others were self-obsessed: I deserved more partial credit, based on the
work I completed. Sometimes, they even worked in tandem: too much of the mark comes
from the homework, and homework should be a bigger percent of the overall grade.
Many were parents who posed as their teens.
If they wanted to improve education, of course, the sites would let teachers post
their rebuttals:
Of course you think it’s boring — it’s Trigonometry!
Too much emphasis on homework? Not enough? Sounds like I’ve found the mean. If
you don’t know what ―mean‖ means, you should have been doing your homework.
I can only award partial credit if you get the work partially correct.
They‘d be fostering a dialogue, not hosting a bitch session. But the sites weren‘t
designed to improve classrooms, not in Dave‘s opinion. They were forums of vengeance,
where students with wounded pride could lash at their captors. Shred the teachers who
clung to integrity, the few who demanded quality work, then had the audacity — the
fools — to note when a pupil fell short of their expectations.
And heaven help you if you were arrogant enough to penalize cheating. Hadn‘t
you read Christ‘s admonition? Let those without sin be the first to punish the plagiarists.
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In Dave‘s opinion, self-loathing drove students to post their negative reviews.
Shame disguised as righteous indignation, the same potion that fueled the internet, where
lonely souls masked their self-disdain by flaunting their opinions and brow-beating their
opponents. They hated rivals, because they couldn‘t bear to look in the mirror — at the
source of their mediocre lives.
―That‘s cynical,‖ noted Gordon, after one of these tirades. ―Don‘t think I‘ll
borrow your sunglasses, not if that’s how they tint the world.‖ Sure, a handful of
students fit that description. But it wasn‘t their only motive for posting comments.
―Some want to help peers choose classes.‖
―Doesn‘t matter, not at MCA. Not with three teachers in the math department,
teaching the same courses each year.‖ If you wanted Calculus, you didn‘t get much of a
choice.
―Maybe we‘ll teach better, if we know the students can report us.‖
―Report us? Like we‘re in some kind of police state?‖ Were the schools better in
China? Did NFL coaches work harder, when players were tweeting behind their backs?
Constant evaluation hampered performance, for teachers and students alike. You lost the
chance to screw up and learn from your mistakes.
Besides, he continued, it would be foolish to implement half the demands of this
fractious minority. Would you consult a misanthrope for PR tips?
―You can‘t ignore their perspective, just because they annoy you.‖
―Watch me. You can‘t yield to pressure, just because they snarl and bluster.‖
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―Then what do you do?‖
―You play the game.‖ Like a canny Republican, added Dave — knowing the
comment would irk his colleague. You appease the Tea Party until you‘re elected, then
thwart its goals from the halls of power. To protect your seat, and preserve your
immortal soul.
As for Dave‘s teaching? Students didn‘t think much of his skill . . . in the most
literal sense possible, meaning it failed to cross their minds. Most were satisfied, neither
impressed nor disappointed, and had little reason to advertise their bland opinion. Hence
the online snapshot was skewed. The public image of his teaching — what friends might
unearth, if they Googled his name — was statistically insignificant. An election in which
two percent of the population voted. An athlete whose legacy was bound to a single
gaffe, not years of workmanlike production.
Rachel had snooped on his reviews, sharing the worst with Mom. The pair laid
bets on how long he would last. He had already beat their initial wagers.
Dave wasn‘t opposed to evaluation. In fact, he welcomed it. But when angry
students could whale their instructors with impunity — it was the impotence that
disturbed him. All he asked was a site of his own, where he could give honest,
anonymous assessments in return. To supply employers, scholarship committees, and
admissions boards with the data they needed, an alternative to inflated grades and
watered-down reference letters. He had even picked a domain name:
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AverageAtBest.com. It was more accurate than his original choice —
YourChildsASlacker.com — though not as catchy.
The dream would never come to pass. Post anything personal about a minor, and
litigation hits the fan. Like playing this sick game of dodgeball, where your opponent
can hit you with everything they‘ve got, but you‘re not allowed to throw back.
That‘s part of your problem, said Bethany. You make teaching into a competition
with your students. You can‘t win that struggle: you‘ll always be outnumbered. Think of
it as a partnership, where you‘re striving together, rather than pulling in opposite
directions.
But that never worked. As soon as they thought he was helping, they quit.
In a staff meeting, the guidance counselor had used beekeeping as a metaphor.
The keeper doesn‘t resist the swarm. Instead, she constructs an appealing habitat. The
insects bring the experience they‘ve gathered and work together as a productive society,
under the watchful eye of the teacher.
The illustration failed to impress, given the self-indulgent anecdotes from her
backyard hives. Not to mention the time slot: 7:00 A.M. on a Monday morning. The
mandatory meetings were seldom useful — an hour of reminders, announcements, and
―inspirational‖ stories about the classroom. Some weeks, Dave felt he was deep in the
bowels of the internet, watching chain letters begin to coalesce.
The beekeeping lesson had prompted a running joke — scrambled comparisons of
teaching and random hobbies: ―How was class?‖ ―Same old story, like you‘re building a
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model ship.‖ ―How‘s that?‖ ―Oh, you know. The pieces are assembled, stuck in the
glass bottle, but you‘ve lost the string that pulls them upright.‖
Others critiqued the analogy. They argued that teachers weren‘t ―keepers‖ —
overseers of an ignorant species. And talk-radio junkies were zealous to root out the
socialist propaganda. They slammed the hive mentality, the concept of communal
wealth, the property stolen from individual workers. It was a moral, they claimed:
without private ownership, your hard work will be snatched by a beekeeper government.
Gordon linked teaching and coaching, which fit his title as General Manager. He
had a different role than his students, yet they worked toward the same goals. He
supervised drills and provided instruction, but during a game — their tests — he could
only cheer from the sideline. The execution was their responsibility.
The model appealed to Dave. He might have used it himself, only The G— M—
had claimed it first.
―A‖ Stands for ―Effort‖
In Gordon‘s conceit, awarding grades was like designating the captains (the
A students), the starters (Bs), and the reserves (Cs). Students who failed the
course were cut from the team at the end of the term.
Have you actually failed a student? asked Dave. Ever? In any of your Old
Testament surveys?
The G— M— thought for a second. No, I suppose not.
Not even Ted McCullers?
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The previous spring, Ted‘s antics drove Gordon insane. On one test, he had
answered a simple question — ―List the five books that comprise the Major
Prophets & the thirteen Minor Prophets‖ — by claiming it wasn‘t fair to label
books ―major‖ and ―minor,‖ when all of the content in the Bible was important.
―I would have accepted the answer,‖ explained Gordon, ―if he‘d listed the
books in a single category. But he didn‘t. He simply refused to learn the
material.‖
Dave knew the technique. On word problems, his students would attack the
plausibility of each scenario, rather than working the actual math.
So everybody makes the team, he observed. Only they don‘t want to ride
the bench, because that‘s not very fun. ―So we crowd the field with starters.‖
Only it doesn‘t seem fair that a handful get singled out as captains. ―They all
want to wear the special armband — trophies and ice cream for everyone, hooray!
They‘re all winners, no matter how talented or skilled. They don‘t even need to
try. They simply have to believe they tried. Because A stands for Effort.‖
Did the parents complain? Not a peep. These adults who raised hell when
the youth football leagues neglected to keep score. Competition taught their
offspring ―life-lessons‖ and ―real-world skills,‖ they argued. Everywhere but the
classroom, at least
So the best students got As. As did the second-best. Very good earned an
A-, maybe B+ in a tough class. And good was a B. But all of their students were
good, right? So B stood for Baseline. Only a Baseline is Below the Average, and
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none of their kids were below average. Which is how — last May — they had
nine valedictorians among seventy-four graduates.
The reviews were like most of his obsessions. Once he latched onto them, he
couldn‘t let go. The thing was, his overall ratings were fine. Few were superb — not
like Bethany, whose students raved about her dedication. He was seldom deemed
―Excellent,‖ averaging 3.56 out of 5 stars. Sometimes, a chili pepper would label him a
cute teacher. Grade inflation of a different sort.
He got the job done. Students learned their math, advancing to college with
competent skills. His classes appealed to the reserved. They didn‘t need inspiring
lectures or robust discussions or flamboyant games that got everyone involved — the
instructional hooey that made other classes so miserable. They wanted a room of their
own, a quiet space for solving problems. Where correct answers were rewarded, not a
chipper spirit.
They became engineers and programmers: nothing flashy, not the headliners of
the alumni newsletter. Solid citizens, the bedrock of churches and neighborhood
associations. A trickle returned on brief visits. They slipped through the halls, quiet and
inconspicuous. Nothing like the ex-celebrities, who marched through the door like they
still owned the school. Whose shoulders drooped as they realized the truth: MCA had
survived their departure. A fresh crop of ingénues had snatched their former roles, and
their VIP status was ignored, despite that conspicuous spot in the class portrait. Even the
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faculty had changed. Their teachers seemed harried and distracted — unwilling to chat
for hours at a time, the way they remembered.
Dave‘s pilgrims had different expectations. They had no need for conversation,
for talk had little to do with that hallowed room. The space where high school made
sense, which honored your patient work on intricate calculations. Your presentation
could be quiet, so long as the numbers fit. A skill that companies valued, they had
learned — earning wages that tripled their mentor‘s salary. Thus he became the variable
they couldn‘t grasp: the remainder that didn‘t belong, hanging about the page, well after
the problem was solved.
Their figures weren‘t balanced, after all. They didn‘t understand where he fit.
They didn‘t know why he stayed.
Despite their gratitude, these students were no help online. Their love of accuracy
was his downfall. Like heroes in a Greek tragedy, bound to their foolish vows, they were
forced to rate him with 3s and 4s. Because that‘s exactly what he was: a good teacher,
not a great one.
His detractors felt no such compulsion. They didn‘t consider the benefits of his
course, only their sense of the experience. Even worse, they thought they were being
objective. That‘s why they registered for the class, after all. Mathematics implied
specific answers and quantitative evaluation. They could avoid a teacher‘s whim.
But their excuses were all subjective. When they answered the questions in style
— with a full slate of extracurricular activities, not to mention their active social calendar
— they expected such well-rounded lives to atone for numeric sins. Could he offer them
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extra credit? How about curving that last exam: make 80 an A, just this once? They
begged to tear down their treasured objective scale. Like ordering a salad to watch their
figure, only to douse it with high-fat dressing.
They knew the material, they insisted. But coach ran a tough practice: they didn‘t
have the energy to study, not that night before the test. Not with family dinner. And
drama club. And the worship team. Which ought to count for something, because they
could answer the questions correctly if they took the time to try.
There just wasn‘t enough motivation. Hence blame could be assigned: the culprit
became the teacher, who was paid to promote the subject with panache. Because life was
a mall, and each of your classes a lesser kiosk. Unless something caught your eye — a
magnificent display, fabulous customer service, or a clearance sale, where you could
snatch a result for less than full price — unless that’s what a teacher offered, you‘d take
your business elsewhere.
They didn‘t have time to study, but they‘d clear their schedule to express
discontent. So they wrote of his disdain and disinterest, when the truth of the matter was,
the goods he was selling could never interest them.
Not that it mattered, not in a practical sense. Few of these evaluations were
permanent. Rachel took care of that. Once a year, she flooded the sites with false
reviews. Her comments were outlandish, ranging from the sexually inappropriate (―his
burnished, sun-kissed pectoral muscles bulge beneath his button-down shirts‖) to the
ludicrous (―his training as an itinerant juggler provides plenty of helpful anecdotes,
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especially in Geometry, and a knowledge of circus lore is useful on exams‖). She
balanced fierce tirades (―don‘t take this class unless you‘re a sadistic fool who gets off on
bullshit theorems, because this man is Satan incarnate, bent on destroying your life‖) with
beatific praise (―the gods of Algebra smiled on Midfield, descending in human form to
teach our class‖).
How many email accounts did she assemble, launching her barrage? He had no
idea. But neither did the sites, which had no way to know if reviewers had actually taken
the course. As with most of the internet, ―Brittany‖ could actually be ―Phil‖ — a fortyone year old dentist from Sacramento, not a rising sophomore from Louisville, Kentucky.
The ―students‖ who posted reviews were often friends, spouses, rivals, strangers,
relatives, enemies, and even the teachers themselves. Rachel spread her assault over
several weeks, camouflaging her posts amid the authentic rants. In time, her activity
triggered a failsafe. The account was flagged and his profile removed. Her work
disappeared — an ephemeral, online vapor — but so did ratings by disgruntled students.
In time, the posts would blossom once more. Like kudzu in the spring, or a forest
after a cyclical burn. The entire process would resume — Sisyphus in the chat room.
He tried to thank Rachel for the service, for clearing his name on a regular basis,
but she denied any part in the mischief. Why would she help him out, given times he‘d
left her to hang?
But Dave knew better. Not that his sister was a saint. Defending him was an
afterthought. She was striking back at the kids who plagued her existence, those middle
school years at MCA — before she skipped town for good, returning to Tennessee with
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Mom. She followed Christ‘s injunction and shook the dust off her sandals. The middle
finger was a personal touch.
So her foes had graduated? So what? She would foil their clones.
It was remarkable, he thought, how effective an ally she could be, as long as they
faced a common opponent. And how devastating an assailant, whenever she targeted
him.
Nothing online disappears for good. There‘s always a backup server or random
screenshot. Rachel removed the posts, but she couldn‘t erase his memory, the comments
burnt into his synapses. At night, he assigned students to the nastiest remarks. The next
day, he glowered at them in the halls.
Stop reading that nonsense, advised Beth. You‘re a good teacher, whatever they
say.
Dave couldn‘t help it. The sites were like internet porn, drawing him back against
his will. Leaving viruses in their wake.
Could Sisyphus relate? Plodding toward the crest of that hill, was he stuck with
regrets from his past? Did the burden increase with each trip, the weight of memory
compounding that massive stone?
Or was he blessed with amnesia? Each time his task reset, was his mind renewed
as well? Is that what Camus had understood, when he called the laborer happy?
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Sisyphus in the Classroom
Sisyphus fascinated Dave. The patron saint of mountaineers, according to
Grandpa. A man fated to climb, to ascend peak after peak. Driven by
compulsions that couldn‘t be explained. Whether you pushed your burden or
carried it on your back? That was simply a cultural distinction.
They‘d been hiking uphill for an hour. ―Why didn‘t Sisyphus quit?‖ asked
David.
You wonder that now, answered Grandpa, here on the side of the mountain.
―Wait till we get to the summit, with the breeze on your face and the views for
miles in every direction. You‘ll be singing a different tune, asking the names of
the peaks and which we‘ll trek next. You hate it now, but soon enough, you‘ll be
itching to climb again.‖
Besides, he added, Sisyphus didn‘t have a choice. It‘s like being in the
Army. When you‘re assigned the role of mountaineer, you don‘t get the option to
refuse.
These days, Dave seldom viewed Sisyphus as a hiker. Instead, he pictured
him in the classroom: rolling his boulder to the end of each term, when the
semester reset and the labors started anew.
Sometimes he ditched the legend, opting for Hercules — the cleansing of
the Augean stables. Diverting the river of knowledge, washing out sloth and
Algebraic sacrilege. Like Christ in the temple, flipping the tables of the
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moneychangers. He drove away the heretics, those academic Pharisees who
perverted the system — measuring success in works and grades. Whitewashed
sepulchers: immaculate GPAs, pristine resumes, and heads full of nothing but
rotted flesh.
In the end, all metaphors stymied him. It was the MCA dress code. He
could never be Hercules or Sisyphus or Jesus or anyone who wore sandals to
work.
Why not Armstrong? Clean-cut and all-American, with a shirt that was
always tucked and hair that didn‘t touch the collar. Bound past the skeptics,
accomplish the impossible, and define your life with a single voyage.
Once again, Dave compared his trip to the Apollo mission. Two flights: one
across miles and miles of empty space, the other through western Ohio in the dark.
Which was essentially the same thing.
He rephrased the pun for effect. Two flights: one across miles and miles of empty
space, the other from the earth to the moon.
He wouldn‘t even demand a museum. All he asked was a modest shrine,
somewhere in the halls of MCA. Next to The Springs of Hebron Drinking Fountain of
the Month, perhaps. Generations would pause, reading the commemorative plaque, and
reflect on his exploits with awe. Inspired by this legend, the coach who passed south into
Tennessee.
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Southern Drift
Friday Morning, 1:10 AM
October 15, 2010
A half hour north of Dayton, I-75 South bends to the east. The turn is modest,
a nudge to the wheel. The most significant curve in sixty miles.
The sharpest turn since Lima, the city whose name was pulled from a hat:
pronounced like the bean, but honoring the capital of Peru. Where the route makes an
abrupt turn, shifting course to avoid a cluster of silos.
So Dave pretends. Engineers had been charging
ahead, sowing the ground with survey markers, when the
foreman checked their advance. He furrowed his brow,
confounded by a bewildering obstacle: thousands of
bushels of cattle feed, stockpiled in those daunting shafts.
Dave hates silos. They bring dust explosions, swarms of rats, and snakes the size
of small children. According to the book of Revelation, when the fourth seal is broken, a
runaway semi will crush the towers of Lima, releasing a legion of grain-fed locust.
On Silos
The structures spawn more than vermin. They are breeding grounds for
urban legends, tales that undermine their adjective.
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Picture a forlorn location: acres of leached-out farmland, now covered by
fathoms of muddy water.
Who caused the flood? The Army Corps of Engineers, we suspect. But
don‘t fuss the explanation. Because a derelict silo now rises from the center of
the lake, this vast lagoon beyond space and time. Probably somewhere in Warren
County.
Add a handful of errant youth. The teens provide yeast, allowing the legend
to rise.
They have scaled the exterior and breached the core. Dark water fills the
hollow cylinder. The surface is placid, more than a story beneath the delinquents
and their hazardous perch.
Never mind how they got there. Surely one of them owns a boat.
How did they climb the corrugated hull?
Use your imagination, like they did. Sketch in ladders and access panels.
But the darkness, you object. How can they see the water?
Peel away the roof. Remember that windstorm last April? Launch it across
the surface, so a waterspout pummels the landscape. The breath of God, or a
pressure washer gone berserk.
How will they get out?
Enough questions. You‘re putting more thought into this than our teens.
Relax. Have a drink. Take a leap of faith, no bigger than the dive they’re
considering — taunting each other, gauging the risk of an epic plunge.
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Twenty bucks says one accepts the challenge.
His name is irrelevant. Sam. Larry. Clint. He is sunburned, lanky, and
shirtless. His Cabela‘s cap seldom leaves his head.
Suggest that he‘s a cliché, and he‘ll knock you on your ass.
Don‘t expect grace, a swan dive to immortality. The plummet will be
anticlimactic. Lean away from the side, and gravity handles the rest.
It might be an accident. Who knows? A few beers and the summer sun, a
struggle to stay awake. One nod of the head, and the belly-flop echoes against the
walls.
He disappears within the cistern.
―Holy shit!‖
―Did you see that?!‖
―No fuckin‘ way!‖
The witnesses are thunderstruck. They wait for their prophet to emerge,
baptized and triumphant.
The water begins to churn: slowly at first, a gentle undulation, then a harder
and faster roil. An arm breaks the surface. It disappears amid coils of serpents,
moccasins defending their lair.
You‘ve heard it before?
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So what? Doesn‘t mean it won‘t happen again.
Water snakes don‘t congregate?
Save your objections for the naturalists. This pack‘s an exception, a
secluded commune of hippie moccasins.
It doesn‘t have to be a silo. An abandoned quarry will suffice. A haunted
mine shaft.
You don‘t even need snakes, though they‘re really the best option, more
terrible than displaced gators or monster catfish. Less personified than Hickory,
the ancient turtle, a snapper that‘s older than Job.
In the end, it doesn‘t really matter.
Whatever route you select, somebody‘s losing a hand.
Red taillights drift to the right. The route shifts
again, aiming due south — the approach run to Dayton.
Dave‘s eyes are tired, his attention less than vigilant. If
the lead driver ignores a curve, blasting into the fields at
eighty miles per hour, he‘ll probably follow.
Years ago, during an epic blizzard in rural Ohio, an entire stream of traffic missed
a turn on the interstate. Drivers slammed forward in white-out conditions, launching
their cars from the embankment.
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His Grandfather Kingman related the tale, then added a pithy moral — something
about following the crowd, looking before you leap.
Dave has forgotten the lesson. But he can envision the clouds of powder, the
trucks and sedans as they‘re swallowed by mighty drifts.
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Bored Games
The snowstorm inspired a board game, The Columbus Blizzard, that David would
play with his Grandparents. It had disturbed him, as a child, that his town didn‘t spawn
its own novelty goods. His Grandfather laughed at the notion: ―Midfield‘s too small a
market. Not enough people would buy the product.‖ Which had bothered him even
more. That their city could disappear — wiped from the surface of the planet — and the
world would pay little notice.
One side of the board had a map of the town. The destinations were generic: the
pharmacy, grocery store, bank, and gas station. It was an idyllic vision — a morning of
errands now obsolete, replaced by one-stop shopping at the local supercenter.
Pre-blizzard travel was easy. The playing surface was bright and cheerful, printed
in bold, primary colors. A clear sky and crisp winter afternoon. The sun smiled down on
the town — an actual face, with sunglasses and rosy cheeks. Players raced to complete
their tasks and return home.
Eventually, however, the terrible card would be drawn, and the blizzard would
strike. The entire board would flip, revealing a new map. A whiskered cloud pursed its
lips, unleashing a blast of frigid air. Routes were now tinted gray, and driving hazards
increased. Cars wrecked. Engines failed to start. Travel reduced to a crawl.
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Dave loved the blizzard. The opening rounds were mundane — chores disguised
as entertainment. He would fidget, afraid that the storm would never arrive. It was
inevitable. One day, the unthinkable would happen, with the blizzard card low in the
deck, a series of fortunate rolls, and a game without the legendary storm. He aimed for
the spots that let him draw cards, hastening the onset of the tempest. Grandfather would
frown, troubled by the impractical strategy.
He often played board games in Midfield, visiting his Grandparents with Dad.
Rachel considered the pastime terminally dull, the few occasions that she was invited.
―Bored Games,‖ she called them. ―Like, after the first turn, you‘re bored out of your
mind.‖
They owned land on the outskirts of town, a long, vertical lot with an impressive
front lawn. The best part of the property was out back, a four-acre stand of trees. The
type of forest that once covered the entire state, according to his Grandfather. A squirrel
could travel from Indiana to Pennsylvania without even touching the ground. As a young
boy, these strolls were highlight of each visit. They flushed deer and wild turkey, and
Grandfather talked about western Ohio. David stood on a fence rail, trying to picture the
departed forest. He usually failed.
The flatlands slid past him in the night: the pool table of the Midwest. The idea
seemed too incredible — that hardwoods once filled this empty space. That humans
could impose such a drastic change.
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He could understand a dam that rerouted a river, or a city built over a swamp.
Railroad tracks through a mountain gorge. Feats of engineering, technological wonders.
But that elemental forces laid millions of acres bare. The idea was too marvelous
to believe. Nothing but simple machines: axes swung over and over again, saws drawn
back and forth. Horses and cattle and ropes and pulleys.
And men. Thousands and thousands of men. Generations.
No, he could never grasp the change. Not even as a child, staring at knots of trees
on the horizon, the thickets along distant streams.
He could never believe in the endless forest, millions of acres of oak and maple
and buckeye. It was easier to picture a prehistoric squirrel, a mammoth rodent that
leaped miles in a single bound. It picked its way across the state, soaring from one copse
to the next, like a hiker that rock-hopped a challenging stream.
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―R.O.U.S.? I don’t think they exist.‖
I
On the campus of Fischer College, squirrels outnumber the faculty by a four-toone margin. They nest in the trees and dig for acorns; rivals dart across the spacious
lawn, a pursuit that coils about the trunks of mighty oaks and follows each branch to the
outermost limit. Limbs dip beneath the weight, and the animals launch into space.
Chapel speakers yield to temptation. They reduce these magnificent vaults to an
illustration: the leap of faith that Christ demands — the need to commit, to believe with
your entire heart, trusting on the Divine sacrifice for your eternal salvation.
II
Once, walking from the library to his dorm, Dave had witnessed a tragic scene.
Nothing that would shake a renowned evangelist to the core, but enough to derail his
example.
The contest was typical at first: a squirrel racing after a comrade, their roles
constantly reversing in a manic game of tag. One animal streaked along a bough,
jumping from the buckling limb at the last possible moment. The other followed.
Two maples flanked a sidewalk. The first squirrel covered the distance. The
second didn‘t. It dropped in an arc: the product of two vectors, its forward momentum
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against the pull of gravity. The creature fell twenty feet and thumped against the concrete
path.
The victor turned and chattered. The rival lay on its side, motionless. Its body
broken.
A young woman screamed. She had been passing under the branches, oblivious
to the chase, when the doomed rodent landed at her feet. She staggered backward,
witnessed its final, convulsive twitch, and started to hyperventilate. Her shoulder bag fell
on its side. A thick binder snapped open, and handouts skated across the grass. Two
freshmen — eager young lads — began to gather the papers. Like sharks, drawn to the
traumatized student. Circling, attempting to reach her first. Armed with a kind gaze, her
lost notes, and nods of sympathy.
Dave could understand their interest. She wore a form-fitting charcoal sweater,
and black leather boots heightened the tartan pattern on her skirt, which enveloped her
body like a sheaf.
He was transfixed. What was she thinking? That the kamikaze had flung itself at
her legs, a sacrifice to her beauty? That the ten plagues had been modified, adjusted to fit
the local ecosystem, with squirrels — rather than frogs — dropping from the sky? The
thought struck him as ludicrous, and he laughed.
―Asshole.‖ The whisper passed his left ear. She moved fast: not running, but
determined. Twin braids dropped from a bandana and knocked against the back of her tshirt.
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Nature Girl. He‘d noticed her in the past. At chapel, the Humanities complex,
the new climbing wall. But never without her ubiquitous braids — the closest style to
dreadlocks on Fischer‘s campus.
His objection came tardy and weak: ―Hey, I wasn‘t laughing at—‖
She spun, her patchwork skirt a swirl of color. A crocheted satchel smacked
against her hip.
Dave didn‘t know her actual name, only the handles — Nature Girl, Princess
Redwood, and his personal favorite, Amazon Granola — that his roommate Adam had
bestowed.
Princess Redwood cocked her head and raised her eyebrows, challenging him to
continue. Her blue eyes sparkled with anger. They matched her doo-rag. She wore a
hemp necklace, a choker with a pewter Jesus fish that hung from the weave. Fashion
accesories for the Christian hippie.
Amazon Granola drew a fist toward her chest, against her bosom. Her t-shirt
pulled tight, and he wondered if she was wearing a bra. She raised her middle finger,
paused long enough to deliver the message, and turned her attention to the squirrel.
III
―The squirrel?‖ Mark asked. ―Not the other girl?‖ They were strolling toward
Hendricks Dining Commons.
―Sweater Girl,‖ corrected Adam.
―Trust me,‖ Dave said. ―Sweater Girl was getting enough attention.‖
―But what was she going to do,‖ Mark wanted to know, ―perform CPR?‖
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―Beats me.‖ Dave had wondered the same thing. Whether she would extract a
medical kit from her magic satchel, performing small-mammal triage on the campus
lawn. ―I didn‘t stay to watch.‖
―You fled the scene of an accident?‖
―I wasn‘t welcome.‖ He offered it as a joke, but the memory stung.
―Asshole.‖ Adam spat the insult in Dave‘s ear, walked ahead, and spun with a
flourish. He flipped him the bird.
―What the hell?‖ Dave asked.
―A reenactment. For the Lifetime Original Movie: The Day No Squirrels Would
Fly.‖
IV
―Campus art?‖ suggested Brian.
―What?‖ asked James. Their party had doubled in size, assembled at one of the
large round tables in Hendricks. They were sophomores, all living on the second floor of
McCather Hall. McCatheter, they called it. The Big Mac.
―Campus art,‖ repeated Brian. ―Like a still life, but with squirrels. She probably
has a freezer full of them.‖
―That‘s disgusting,‖ said Mark.
―I‘m serious: she‘s making them outfits and miniature protest signs.‖
―Why the hell would she do that?‖ asked Wilson.
―How should I know? Some type of diorama for the campus lawn? A political
statement? Something that only dead squirrels can make?‖
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Dave picked at his burrito. He had wanted the stir-fry, but Nature Girl was sitting
near the Asian grill. It was a serious problem at a small college: make enemies, and you
had nowhere to hide.
He left the table for a refill, taking an indirect route to the drink station. Princess
Redwood hadn‘t moved. She was surrounded by friends: members of the Creation Club,
judging by their weather-beaten faces and lithe bodies. They hiked trails, paddled rivers,
and hung from boulders, all in the name of worship — celebrating the Maker of features
they named and conquered. Their bodies were ripped like Samson.
She was laughing, touching a companion on the arm. More attractive than he
remembered, especially when she smiled. Next to the table, her bag lay open on the
floor. He looked for a bushy tail.
By the time he returned to the table, the conversation had shifted to Big Ten
football: Ohio State‘s losses to Miami and Wisconsin, the odds that Cooper might be
canned. Pretty good, if Michigan slaughtered them in The Big House once again. Only
James and Mark remained stuck on the squirrels. They debated the physics, whether the
lead runner had been aided by tension within the branch, latent energy that thrust him into
the air, like a springboard pushing a diver forward. The limb hadn‘t reset, suggested
Mark. Thus it couldn‘t support the second launch.
Others caught wind of the discussion. They taunted the scholars, raising
questions about Newton‘s first law of Squirrel Dynamics — that a squirrel in motion
remains in motion, while a squirrel at rest is fodder for hawks.
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They debated the proper classification. Mark linked them to the raccoon family, a
notion the others derided. ―They‘re rats,‖ said Adam, ―rodents with bushy tails.‖
―Rodents of Unusual Size?‖ asked James.
Brian accepted the cue: ―The R.O.U.S.? I don‘t think they exist.‖
V
That night, Dave lay in his bed, fighting the onset of a sinus headache. A pulse in
his forehead, striking the pavement again and again and again.
He wondered if Nature Girl had a boyfriend. Probably. With a tanned face and
perfect teeth, not to mention the wrought-iron back from hours on the climbing wall.
But those pastimes were risky, the potential for accidents high. A carabiner might
fail, or a falling rock could break that smug grin. A suspicious growth on his neck — the
product of years in the brutal sun.
Dave would be free to strike: ―Remember me? You called me an asshole and
flipped me the bird. Sorry to hear about your friend. Want to go out this weekend —
grab dinner at the Falafel Kingdom, and watch Animal Planet in my dorm?‖
The jackhammer intensified. She was out of his league: better looks, greater
cultural awareness. Earthy and sensual, a world apart in every possible way.
Who was he kidding? Even if Nature Girl was available or compatible . . . if she
was remotely attracted to him . . . if the entire day could be erased, a fresh slate for their
relationship . . . even then, he‘d lack the courage to ask her out. During visitation hours,
he would pace the hallways of her dorm. He might smile or wave as he passed her open
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door, but he wouldn‘t gather the nerve to speak. The residents would grow wary of his
laps, mistaking his nervous loop for a stalker‘s tread. They‘d phone security, reporting
the pervert on the loose.
There was a lesson in the squirrel, a moral that gave even risk-takers pause.
There was peril in too brash a leap, a terrible hazard in bounds of faith.
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Notes – Fischer College
―. . . the squirrels outnumber the faculty by a four-to-one margin.‖
―R.O.U.S‖
Fischer Recruitment Officers* tout this low squirrel-to-faculty ratio, stressing the
advantages of an intimate, liberal arts setting over large, secular institutions.
*
―Fischers of SAT scores‖ and ―Authors of Fisch Stories,‖ according to rival schools.
―They nest in the trees and dig for acorns; rivals dart across the spacious lawn. . . .‖
―R.O.U.S‖
Brochures highlight this scenic plot, where undergrads
stroll between buildings — bathed in warm colors and deep in
stimulating conversation.
They are wholesome but attractive, diverse but not
extreme. They wear scarves without jackets and cradle their
books to their chests. A backpack features the Fischer crest: a
cross rising from an open book, connecting the text to the
world.
No iPods are visible, no iPhones.
No laptop computers, though the pamphlet boasts about Fischer‘s technology: the
Wi-Fi umbrella that swaddles the campus, an Internet hot spot amid the soybean fields.
Counselors reassure troubled parents. They stress the Philippians4.8 Shield, the
school‘s proprietary content filter.* They discuss the verse that inspired the name:
―Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is
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pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable — if anything is excellent or
praiseworthy — think about such things.‖
They seldom mention its pornography firewall.
*
Despite rumors to the contrary — not to mention the outspoken wish of prominent
donors — Philippians.4.8 does not restrict access to The Huffington Post, Salon.com, The
New York Times, or Democrats.org, the official website of the Democratic party.
―. . . a pursuit that coils about the trunks of mighty oaks.‖
―R.O.U.S‖
The billboard zooms to a solitary student, a young woman reading beneath these
trees. The tranquil image highlights the agreeable weather, the safety of the campus, and
the academic focus.
The pleasant sight proves fickle in the Lake Erie snow belt. On suitable weeks in
mid-April — once the ground thaws, the mud dries, and a layer of grass emerges —
photographers stalk the coeds. They track scholars that break from the herd, hoping they
settle in charming locales.
―Chapel speakers yield to temptation.‖
―R.O.U.S‖
These mandatory services can stymie recruiters, who adapt their pitch to the
audience. If the prospect is wary of higher education — afraid liberal professors will
deconstruct cherished beliefs — they emphasize the central role of chapel in the
academic schedule: how a window of time is cleared at the heart of each day, with no
classes held between ten and eleven, so that scholarship yields to worship. For less
conventional students, those skeptical of Fischer‘s reputation as a rule-bound institution,*
they stress the lenient attendance policy (one skip allowed per week), and note that the
popular Friday praise service (―Thank God: It‘s Friday!‖) does not include a sermon.
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*
Such a reputation is relative, of course. Quite often, labeling a school ―conservative‖ or
―liberal‖ says more about the speaker than the institution. Many of the rules at Fischer —
the code of conduct signed by students, for example, with vows to refrain from alcohol
and intercourse — would seem legalistic at Bowling Green State University, fifty miles
to the west.
But Fisher appears lenient, almost criminally lax, next to Cedarville College, three
hours to the south, where the students encounter a curfew (Midnight on weekdays, 1 AM
on weekends) and a ban on most R-rated movies.
Then again, Cedarville proves downright heathen — a Sodom in southern Ohio
— compared to Pensacola Christian College, down on Florida‘s gulf coast, where the
regulations forbid all physical contact between members of the opposite sex,** restrict
off-campus trips, and warn students about the subversive influence of the easy-listening
station.
**
Undergrads can circumvent the ban by locking eyes, using an intense gaze known as
―eye kissing,‖ ―optical intercourse,‖ & ―making eye babies.‖ Such adaptation is
discouraged, a form of Darwinian behavior — Evolution, even — directly at odds with
the school‘s Department of Biology.
The cautions about easy-listening music, on the other hand, may simply present
an aesthetic verdict, a rare instance when PCC leaders and secular critics agree.
―They reduce these magnificent vaults to an illustration: the leap of faith that Christ
demands . . . .‖
―R.O.U.S‖
As a rule, axiomatic beliefs should not rely on agile rodents. Sciurus carolinensis
can seldom redeem the sins of the world. In fact, the squirrel‘s leap of ―faith‖ is a form
of heresy: a salvation based on works, a direct contradiction to Ephesians 2:8-9.
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Notes – Hendricks Dining Commons
―They were strolling toward Hendricks Dining Commons.‖
―R.O.U.S‖
This cafeteria was named after his Grandmother‘s uncle, a Provost at Fischer
during the early 1900s. ―The entire school should have been named Hendricks College,‖
she explained, ―our family was that instrumental in its founding.‖ They were eating steak
on the patio, celebrating the start of Dave‘s freshman year.
Dave was a Heritage Scholar, granted to students in a third generation to attend
Fischer. His father had also received the award.
He knew the tradition. Grandfather served on the Board of Directors for sixteen
years, and a plaque in the Library honored his Grandmother, the first woman to graduate
with a major in Mathematics.
―But there were more Fischers,‖ she continued. ―They pooled their resources and
financed the school‘s initial building. Which they never let anyone forget.‖
―Also, there was already a Hendricks College,‖ his grandfather noted, ―down in
Arkansas.‖
―And a Fischer College in Boston.‖ She gestured with her knife and launched
into a monologue about the Fischer family — their pride, arrogance, and constant
awareness of their legacy.
―Your Grandmother is a conspiracy theorist,‖ his mother had once observed.
―But only about irrelevant conspiracies.‖
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Now and then, a new wrinkle would emerge. His junior year, when he mentioned
reading Winesburg, Ohio for a course in American literature, his Grandmother grew
attentive.
―That‘s about the Fischers,‖ she announced.
―Patricia,‖ said Grandfather.
―Don‘t ‗Patricia‘ me, William.‖ She claimed that the book had been based on the
town of Clyde, only a county away from Fischer‘s campus.
―On Clyde?‖ Dave‘s father asked. ―Not Winesburg?‖
―It‘s a fictional town,‖ she explained, ―based on the city of Clyde.‖
―But isn‘t there a Winesburg as well? Dad? Do you know the place I‘m talking
about?‖
―South of Canton, I think — over by New Philadelphia.‖
―But that‘s not the basis for the book,‖ insisted Grandmother, her frustration
increasing. ―The town was modeled after Clyde, and the main character is Gregory
Fischer.‖
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―An urban legend,‖ said his professor. He gestured at the view from the office
window. ―A rural legend, given our location.‖
Mentioning Grandmother‘s theory had been a last resort, plugging an awkward
silence. They had finished discussing his paper topic, but Dave lingered, hoping to offset
his quiz marks with participation points.
―Your Grandmother‘s half-right. Anderson based his stories on Clyde, not
Winesburg. But the Fischers. . . .‖ He swiveled in his chair to search for a book, then
abandoned the hunt. ―I‘ll admit, the main character in ‗Godliness‘ — Jesse Bentley — he
certainly resembles our distinguished founder. Both were determined men, a touch
egotistical. They envisioned themselves as patriarchs.‖ His voice had a wry tint,
possibly a touch of sadness. ―The kingdom of God in central Ohio.‖
A diploma from Colorado hung on the office wall, beneath a photo of the Front
Range.
Thus the professor‘s failure to comprehend Bentley. A transplant would never
understand that type of vision. You couldn‘t relate to the furious passion, inches beneath
the town‘s surface. To wrap your heart around that, you had to believe in the Midwest.
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Mission Control
Ia
Neil was energetic, bounding across the moon‘s surface. Dave watched his
partner with disgust, annoyed at the childish behavior. At his nonchalant response, given
their dire predicament.
Where the hell was Aldrin and the lunar module?
They‘d been working toward a ridge, aimed for Tranquility Base. But the crest
receded before them, slipping farther with every step. Fresh obstacles emerged: crevices
that blocked their route, craters that grew as they rounded the circumference.
Neil performed a cartwheel. He executed a perfect back flip, stood on his hands,
and attempted a one-armed push-up, his legs pointed to the heavens. The stunt failed,
even in low gravity, and he toppled onto his side. The bulky suit absorbed the impact.
That‘s one small fall for an ass, thought Dave.
He scanned the universe, searching for the Command Module. Could Mike even
glimpse them from orbit? The Earth looked closer than ever, its colors brilliant. None of
the photos had done the planet justice.
Armstrong was an idiot. The giant leap was yet to come. It had been easy
enough to break gravity, thrown into space by the Saturn V. Driven forward by
thousands of tons of propellant, not to mention the hopes of a nation. Getting home was
the real challenge.
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Ib
The module stood to his right, less than fifty yards away. He couldn‘t guess how
they missed it. Neil was moving to the ladder. He turned, scanned the horizon, and
signaled for Dave to hurry.
Dave returned the wave. He was moving as fast as he could, but his muscles felt
stagnant — everything stuck in slow motion.
The tap on his shoulder was light but distinct.
II
How would an astronaut respond? How would he react — on the surface of a
foreign planet, a bend on a desolate trail, an alley in a hostile city — if he thought he was
alone and suddenly felt that alien touch? A chill worked along his spine.
Dave glanced in the rearview mirror. Behind him, about a hundred yards back,
the pair of headlights was steady. They had appeared near Lima. Never closer, but never
out of sight. His concern had grown as their miles in tandem increased.
He reduced speed, driving sixty. The pursuit slowed as well.
He hit the gas. The lights faded at first, then methodically reeled him in.
Gordon‘s apartment had been dark, but that wasn‘t a guarantee. It wasn‘t beyond
The G— M— to sneak outside, stalking his colleague from the shadows, determined to
keep him from visiting Beth.
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Dave could picture his mounting confusion. The unexpected route, the surprise at
the ramp to the interstate. Miles of bewilderment, not to mention the nagging doubt —
the fear he was tailing the wrong truck.
Dave couldn‘t be certain, not that headlights belonged to Gordon. He‘d spaced
out for miles at a time. Each time, he returned with a start and a shudder — a quick
prayer of thanks, and gratitude he was still on the road.
What could the astronauts have done, if they spotted a ship in the rearview
mirror? A warning inscribed on the glass: Alien Vessels are Closer than They Appear.
Armstrong rode the brainchild of engineers. They strapped him to a rocket, lit the
fuse, and told him to enjoy the ride. He was monitored from a control center — stocked
with slide rules and crew cuts, banks of computers and thick-framed eyewear. None of it
retro at the time.
What would Stratham do, given access to such a resource? A room deep in the
catacombs of MCA, where he followed the teachers on massive screens? Watching their
flashing blips on a detailed map of Midfield. He‘d know if they skipped church on
Wednesday evening. If they ventured too close to the Arts District. If they sat near the
bar at Dingos & Divots — ―The Sports Café from Down Under, Mate.‖
Even Stratham required sleep. A watchman would cover the loneliest hours,
sipping a cup of coffee and fighting boredom. The icons motionless, only the slightest
twitch for insomnia or restless leg syndrome. Would he notice a single rogue light,
slowly drifting to the south?
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Dave could picture the double-take, the rush to sound the alarm. The coffee
splattered across the floor. Stratham would arrive within minutes, blasting into the room
and taking control.
Gordon would answer his phone on the second ring: ―What up, chief?‖
―The rabbit has flown the coop. Scramble your ministry team: Kingman‘s on the
move.‖
―No worries, boss,‖ the lieutenant would respond. His eyes narrowed to slits,
tracking the fugitive in the distance. ―I‘m already on his tail.‖
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Review Problem – Section III
Algebra I – Mr. Kingman
Take-Home Question – Exam #4
Name: _____________________________
Amanda Grayson wants to market a board game based on her hometown of Midfield.
She has already invested $5000 in designing and producing an initial prototype, ―Stuck in
the Middle of Midfield,‖ and spent an additional $2000 marketing her product. She plans
to sell each of the units, which cost $4.75 (each) to make & $25 (per 100) to distribute, for
$18.16 each (1816 being the year of the town’s first permanent settlement, the Stockdale
farm).
1. How many games does Amanda need to sell to recover her initial investment?
2. In 2010, the Midfield population was 136,711. Suppose 1% of the population buys her
game. Was her decision to invest her money wise, given that CD rates at the Midfield
Credit Union have been averaging 3.25% during the five years that she developed the
game? (Assume that her $7000 investment is made at the start of this period.)
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SECTION IV: THE BALLAD OF MR. PETE
In which a discussion of Pittsburgh gets terribly far off-course.
Grandpa Speals of Pittsburgh: Take I — Mr. Pitts — Foreign Men — Missionary
Journeys — Mr. Pete to the Rescue — I.P. Longshot — Mr. Pete’s Speech: A Close
Reading & Deconstruction — Rocket Launchers and Disenchantment — The Trinity of
Mr. Pete —Interview Transcripts — The Sad Demise of Mr. Pete — Foreign Men:
Reprise — Fossil Evidence— ―So Pre-Trib, I won’t eat Post-Toasties‖ — Grandpa
Speaks of Pittsburgh: Take II — Eternal Security — Grandpa Speaks of Pittsburgh: Take
III — Review Problem, Section IV
LENGTH: It‘s not the miles, it‘s the years.
HIGHLIGHTS: A peculiar obsession with hair; the villainy and self-destruction of Mr. Pete.
CAUTIONS: Detours in time & space; multiple attempts to speak of Pittsburgh.
TRAILHEAD: Somewhere north of Dayton, Ohio, on Interstate 75.
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Grandpa Speaks of Pittsburgh: Take I
―Son.‖
―Grandson.‖
―Son, have you ever been to Pittsburgh?‖
The topic surfaced at random: hiking along Twentymile Creek, driving through
Tuckaleechee Cove, enjoying a cone at the Townsend Wye. The stories that followed
were always interesting, often ridiculous, and seldom about Pittsburgh.
The question was a mere formality, the opening line in a well-rehearsed routine.
David had visited Pittsburgh once, on a long weekend with his mother and sister.
They toured the city with Mr. Pitts, who lived in a nearby suburb. Dave seldom recalled
the names of Mom‘s suitors, only the codes that he and Rachel assigned them.
They hit all the key attractions: the children‘s museum, Fort Pitt, and the rare
combination zoo & aquarium. A Zooquarium, Mr. Pitts called it. At the Monongahela
Incline, they rode the steep rail to the observation deck. The view was grand from the top
of the ridge, looking out on the downtown skyscrapers and the bridges connecting that
urban triangle to the surrounding neighborhoods. David spotted Three Rivers Stadium,
home field of the hated Steelers. Mr. Pitts explained that the Allegheny and the
Monongahela met downtown, creating the Ohio: two rivers, each with its own history,
209
coming together to form something new. He winked at their mother, as if the geography
held a secret message.
On the drive from Midfield, David had studied the city‘s history — hoping to
impress this man he had never met. But the adults weren‘t listening. Mr. Pitts was
singing a foolish lyric — ―Manana-na-na-na . . na-na . . ga-hela!‖ — and trying to make
Mom laugh.
Rachel was restless, kicking at the guard rail. The overlook was boring, she
complained. She wanted to swim in the hotel pool.
Back at the Holiday Inn, Mom lectured them about gratitude. Mr. Pitts planned a
wonderful day, spending a great deal of money on them. They ought to be thankful.
―But I wanted to go swimming,‖ Rachel insisted.
―You can swim in Midfield. We drove to Pennsylvania to see Pittsburgh.‖
―But I don‘t like Pittsburgh.‖
―Sometimes, children need to do what the adults want to do.‖
―Why doesn‘t Cindy have to do what adults want to do?‖
David squirmed on the edge of the bed, embarrassed by Rachel‘s pointed
question. Cindy was Mr. Pitts‘s daughter, only a few years older than David. A
difference that gave her an air of mystery — especially to Rachel, who wanted an older
sister.
Mom didn‘t answer. She walked to the window and stared at the parking lot.
After a few minutes, she told them to put on their suits.
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Cindy had refused to join the tour, and her father submitted to her demands. The
decision upset Mom, a tension that grew throughout the weekend.
The pressure broke at the children‘s museum. David had been watching a
presentation about electricity — a teen with her hand on a Van de Graaff generator. He
wanted to volunteer for the experiment himself, but he couldn‘t gather the nerve. The
electrical charge made her shoulder-length hair stand on end, creating a radical style. The
transformation was captivating. He couldn‘t stop staring, afraid to miss a single instant
of her electric makeover. After the demonstration, his attraction waned as the haircut
drooped back to normal: slightly unkempt, a hint of its recent splendor.
The crowd dispersed. He spotted his mother near the display on centrifugal force,
engaged in a solemn conversation with Mr. Pitts. He walked close enough to snag
fragments — ―get to know her,‖ ―soon,‖ ―family differences‖ — before they noticed him
listening.
He never met Cindy that weekend, his lone visit to the Keystone State. The next
morning, they checked out of the hotel early. Rachel had complained: she wanted to
swim in the pool again. But Mom had been resolute. They needed to get on the road.
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Foreign Men
David never knew where she found them — these men like Mr. Pitts, who
surfaced in their lives for a season, then disappeared. They were seldom local. In those
days, Mom insisted on dating believers, yet the singles at church showed her little
interest. They might overlook a divorce, given her youth and good looks. Two children
presented a greater hurdle.
Date Laura, and brace yourself for awkward encounters with David‘s father and
grandparents — prominent members at Central Presbyterian, active supporters of MCA,
and names you‘d spot in the local paper.
Rachel was a different problem altogether: her lineage a mystery, a constant
reminder of seven years that Laura had disappeared.
Few residents knew the details of her flight: her retreat into Tennessee for
Rachel‘s birth, the year with her parents that followed. Her return north — not to
Midfield, but to the Hocking Hills, where they lived with her father‘s kin. She completed
her studies at Ohio University, a degree in nursing that David‘s arrival had once
postponed.
They didn‘t know about her second marriage. She refused to open that turbulent
chapter. One of the rare times that a friend asked, trying to fill in the gaps, she said that
the past belonged in the past.
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Missionary Journeys
1. August 1978
Laurel Walker
Maryville (TN) to Hocking County (OH)
2. June 1982
Laura Kingman
w. Charles & David Kingman
Hocking County to Midfield
3. April 1987
Laura Walker
w. David Kingman
Midfield to Maryville
4. July 1988
Laura Walker
w. David Kingman & Rachel Walker
Maryville to Hocking County
5. May 1993
Laura Coates
w. David Kingman & Rachel Walker
Hocking County to Midfield
6. August 1999
Laura Walker
w. Rachel Walker
Midfield to Maryville
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Mr. Pete to the Rescue
Dave recalled plenty of scenes and details, more than enough to reconstruct the
plot. But he didn‘t know how they met. In that sense, Pete was a mystery — like all the
rest. After her graduation from nursing school, Mom kept the family in the region and
worked at a local hospital. Perhaps she met Pete on a lunch break, eating chicken salad at
the local diner. Her hour of repose, a window of peace amid patients and children that
clamored for her attention. Whatever the story, the relationship started with promise.
Mom smiled more often — never at rest, but with glints of hope in her tired eyes.
The wedding itself was unremarkable: a civil ceremony, six months after they
started dating, followed by dinner at a local restaurant. The real highlight came earlier in
the relationship, the Sunday that Mr. Pete had first presented them to his church. The
brash move scandalized the oldest members at Hayden Valley Tabernacle, who were
fond of their order and tradition. Pastor Harrison would greet the assembly, inviting
visitors to raise their hands, while a deacon patrolled the aisle with manila envelopes.
The ritual was redundant. Given the small congregation — ninety, one hundred
members at most — new faces were easy to identify. Deacons could spot the guests
without all the pageantry. What‘s more, newcomers were extremely rare. In the two
years they attended Hayden Valley Tabernacle with Mr. Pete, a trio of certainties
emerged: 1) the sermon would contain three points, each beginning with the same letter
of the alphabet; 2) as the opening chords of the synthesized track were cued, the soloist
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would challenge the audience to ―listen to the words‖; and 3) the deacon‘s mission would
be futile — he‘d leave with the packets he brought to the front.
These parcels acquired a mythic status. The longer they went unclaimed, the
greater their appeal, like a Powerball jackpot that ballooned each week. Guesses about
their content preoccupied David‘s mind. They contained secrets, he was all but certain.
The healing rites that elders performed; passwords and secret handshakes and a map of
the tunnels beneath the fellowship hall. A charter of unspoken rules, bylaws that
governed the assembly, which everyone knew but never discussed.
Mr. Pete interfered. Hence the packet was never delivered: in David‘s
mythology, the principal reason he often felt strange at that church.
I.P. Longshot
Such fears were unfounded, he discovered a year later. He had been
crawling beneath the pews, racing to gather the used communion shots. Plastic
cups were scattered like confetti — their grape juice emptied, the metaphor
consumed. Kids stacked them as scepters and swords. Within minutes of the
benediction, the rows would be clear of debris.
Adults overlooked the chaos at their feet: it saved them time and spared their
backs. A symbiotic relationship, Mom observed, like those African birds that
perch on a rhino, picking the insects off its skin.
Near the back of the sanctuary, a packet had been left unguarded on the final
pew. David scattered his cups like chaff — decoys that would divert any bogeys
on his tail — and closed the gap with due speed.
215
He stashed the bounty in his Picture Bible: like Aachen, concealing the
plunder of Ai. Then he endured the wait. The ride home was endless. He tore
through a thigh and drumstick from a KFC bucket, ate enough green beans to
satisfy Mom, and shot Rachel the evil eye — waiting to be excused, stuck at the
table as she sipped her milk.
Such haste seemed foolish, after he learned of its meager yield. One
handout described the congregation‘s history; another outlined their doctrinal
beliefs. A sheet with clip art explained programs for children. A crude, handdrawn map held promise, and David‘s spirit rose. He searched for the route to the
vault — that barrow where offerings were squirreled away — but the sketch
proved mundane: restaurants, hospitals, and government offices throughout the
county. The information was out of date, encouraging folks who hankered for
homestyle cooking to visit the Kountry Kitchen. The buffet had been closed for
months — health code violations — much to the outrage of Mr. Pete, who railed
against the government‘s interference in his daily life.
Even the information card was a sham. The same postcard appeared in each
pew, near the golf pencils and offering envelopes. Boys filled the blanks with
false information and juvenile humor: ludicrous sums and cryptic names and
jokes about farting. At the apex of this mischief, Ryan Glass achieved lasting
infamy by identifying himself as ―I.P. Longshot, author of Yellow Moon.‖ He
checked a box to request a pastoral visit, then took the bold, irrevocable step of
actually slipping the card in the offering plate: a feat so daring, it drew the
216
attention of the adults. The pastime was banned and suppressed. Ryan paid for
his stunt that afternoon, his dad‘s leather belt on his naked butt.
David knew none of this, not that first time he witnessed the deacon‘s lonely
walk. He was already nervous. They had entered the sanctuary to stares and whispers.
When the pastor asked guests to raise their hands, he spoke directly to Laura. The
congregation shifted in their direction, eager to mark them as strangers — drawn to the
public humiliation. David shrunk in the pew. He remembered this TV movie from the
afternoon before, something that caught Mr. Pete‘s attention. A convict was entering jail,
and all of the prisoners were shouting, yelling and banging the bars on their cells —
trying to frighten the new inmate. ―That‘s right,‖ Mr. Pete muttered. ―They all want a
piece of that.‖ On Sunday, however, he rose to the occasion. He deflected the crowd‘s
attention, standing to his feet and stepping into the aisle. He waved off the deacon‘s
packet.
It wasn‘t their usual practice, he acknowledged, but the Spirit was leading him to
speak. The Lord had brought this wonderful trio into his life, and he wanted to testify to
the blessings of the past month. It was good manners. The families ought to be
introduced: Laura and her children — this earthly household that had shown him such
kindness — and his spiritual family, the body of Christ.
He mentioned them each by name. They had moved to the county a few years
back, so Laura could finish her degree: ―but they liked us so much, they decided to stick
around.‖ Pete described her work at the hospital, ―ministering to the sick . . . with that
real New Testament spirit.‖ She provided for David and Rachel, cooking and cleaning,
217
tending their needs with the fruit of her labor, ―a real-life, flesh-and-blood, Proverbs 31
woman.‖ The ladies of the church nodded their approval, while the men appraised Mom
in a new light — a respect that satisfied Mr. Pete. He mentioned her good looks:
―Midfield‘s loss, but Hocking County‘s gain.‖ Her children were well-behaved and
respectful: a credit to their mother, considering ―the disruptions of their youth.‖ When he
finished his address and sat down, Mom grabbed his hand and squeezed.
218
Mr. Pete’s Speech: A Close Reading & Deconstruction
Years later — after they‘d stolen away from southwest Ohio, miles from Mr.
Pete‘s grip on their lives — Dave would replay this speech in his mind, searching for
clues that he missed at the time. In hindsight, the ominous tint was clear. Pete‘s
obsessions, the expectations that would strangle the relationship: they were present from
the very beginning.
It was a lesson Dave always remembered. The qualities that others praise will
tempt them to destroy you.
1. Pete described her work at the hospital, ―ministering to the sick . . . with that real
New Testament spirit.‖
Pete Coates was employed with the Public Works Department, and Laura‘s
paycheck doubled his standard of living. He bought himself a parade of new toys: a 27‖
television and a VHS player; a riding lawn mower; a big charcoal grill (for the deck he
intended to build, now that he was ―a family man‖).
―I‘m not a control freak,‖ he liked to boast, ―one of those closed-minded husbands
that chains his woman to the kitchen. If Laura enjoys her work, I won‘t discourage her
calling.‖ Even so, he couldn‘t resist a parting shot: ―as long as her pork chops stay
tender, if you comprehend my drift.‖
219
Not that he watched her in action. Hospitals unnerved him, and he declined to
visit her at work. At the same time, he refused to let her quit. Not long after the
marriage, she mentioned a desire to reduce her hours and spend more time with the kids.
Pete opposed the idea. They weren‘t settled, he argued. They needed to develop a
routine, not muddle the schedule with irregular, part-time work. In a few years — ―once
Little P—‘s on the way‖ — they‘d be stable enough for her to cut back.
2. She provided for David and Rachel, cooking and cleaning, tending their needs with
the fruit of her labor, ―a real-life, flesh-and-blood, Proverbs 31 woman.‖
Pete‘s quality of life improved as well. Laura scoured his house, its first real
cleaning in years, and weaned him off Stouffer‘s and Shoney‘s. He took such labors in
stride: after all, she‘d performed these tasks as a single mother; it‘s not like she cooked
him an extra meal. She simply increased the portions, on account of his healthy appetite.
If her pile of laundry grew faster — well, the pit stains were proof of his own hard work.
He stressed his efforts with the lawn and grounds. ―I maintain the exterior of the
house,‖ he informed his stepson, ―and your Mom takes care of indoors.‖ He was
tinkering with the mower as David swept the carport. According to Mr. Pete, women
were emotional: drawn to the interior, to the hearts of people as well as places. Men were
attracted by the surface, in houses as well as women. ―Look at the way we cook,‖ he
explained. ―A man throws a steak on the grill, where he watches it sear. But your mom
— she puts her lasagna in a pan, then bakes it within the oven.‖ Which segued to one of
his favorite lessons: the physical traits of each gender, and their testimony about the
proper roles of men and women. Mr. Pete could read genitalia like they were tea leaves.
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A penis faced outward, leading the charge — it drew the man into the world. But a
woman‘s body was designed to receive: ―your mother and sister have private parts inside
their bodies, near their hearts.‖ Hence a promiscuous woman spread far greater evil than
a husband who slept around. A profligate man wasted his seed — a serious
transgression, no doubt. But a woman drew the sin close, deep within her body. It was
worse than adultery or fornication: ―an abomination.‖
When discord surfaced in the marriage, anatomy could account for Laura‘s
shortcomings. After the proposal to cut her hours, he railed against her ―slothful‖ and
―indolent‖ spirit. ―Look at our bodies,‖ he moaned to his stepson, gesturing toward his
crotch. ―It‘s the curse of Adam: men give and give and give and give; women do nothing
but take.‖
3a. He mentioned her good looks. . . .
When they first started dating, Laura tripped into compliments with every step.
Pete stressed her attractive appearance — no great surprise, given his stance on exteriors.
Each time she met a group of his friends, he demanded their feedback: wasn‘t she ―easy
on the eyes,‖ just the way he had promised?
David wasn‘t sure how to react. He seldom thought about his mother as a
woman. He knew she was pretty — cuter than other moms, especially those with two
kids. Which was the only way he knew to calculate a mother‘s age: by the grades that
her children attended. But he‘d never thought about her figure, that touchstone of Mr.
Pete‘s flattery. He wanted to be angry, appalled at the liberties this stranger assumed.
Yet he watched the man‘s face when Mom entered the room, the way that she captured
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his attention. It made David proud, this power she held — proud and possessive. Was a
similar strength harbored in Rachel‘s body? He longed for a force of his own.
After the wedding, the stream of compliments lessened. Their tenor altered. Pete
continued to praise her appearance — how nice she looked when they left for church,
jeans that flattered the hips — but without that initial sense of urgency.
He grafted advice to the compliments, tempering their impact. At first, the
suggestions were subtle and masked as praise: she ought to purchase another cute dress,
like that number she wore to the Labor Day cookout. Sometimes, he disguised them as
interest: had she ever lightened her hair as a teen, or thought about going blonde or
golden or even platinum, just for a change of pace? He employed misdirection, opening
with a self-effacing observation, then expanding the judgment to Laura: how her
excellent cooking had caused him to gain weight, and they ought to think about cutting
back. Especially her, since she spent most of her time indoors. The remarks evolved
into requests, then demands. The desire transformed into expectation.
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Rocket Launchers and Disenchantment
―The desire transformed into expectation.‖
―Mr. Pete‘s Speech: A Close Reading & Deconstruction‖
David recognized the evolution. He had experienced a similar process, standing
in the aisles of Children‘s Palace and making a wish list for his birthday. At first he was
awestruck, amazed at his good fortune. Stunned by aisle after aisle of seductive displays.
Then he was overwhelmed and paralyzed: afraid of making the wrong decision, a choice
that he‘d later regret. Worried he‘d squander his birthright. Fear begat anger. It was
unfair, limiting his choices in such a constricting manner. He deserved it all —
everything he wanted — and shouldn‘t be forced to restrict his options.
So it could prove bittersweet, playing with new toys. He enjoyed the gifts, but his
mind would drift to the presents he didn‘t receive.
Mr. Pete was drawn to this melancholy. David had assembled an army of G.I.
Joes on the patio. The packaging to his attack jeep lay on the picnic table. The choice
had been especially tough — whether to ask for the rocket launcher or the machine gun
on the back. Missiles were potent, more bang for the buck. They looked so imposing on
the box, erupting from the jeep with a burst of flame.
Now, he regretted the decision. The plastic rockets didn‘t spring toward their
target. You flew them by hand, which disrupted the illusion. Not to mention the letdown
at impact, the lack of a mighty fireball. Which was the beauty of the machine gun. You
imagined the trace of the bullets. You envisioned the destruction. There came a point —
he was slowly learning — when striving to be realistic merely showcased the charade.
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Besides, the rockets were a logistical nightmare. Once you fired all four that
came with the jeep, you were out of ammunition: a sitting duck. Restricted to
transporting soldiers, unless you retrieved your earlier shots — highlighting the childish
game.
Mr. Pete sensed this frustration. He‘d stepped onto the patio for a smoke, sitting
at the picnic table and watching his stepson at play. He examined the box, then took a
discarded trooper, a flamethrower soldier caught by a surprise COBRA ambush. The
plastic features were lifeless, especially compared to the vivid expressions on the
package, the striking eyebrows and furious battle cries. David felt childish, embarrassed
at his immature play.
After a while, Mr. Pete spoke. ―It‘s always a disappointment, isn‘t it? The actual
contents of the package.‖
David didn‘t know what to say.
Mr. Pete tossed the box on the table and stubbed out his cigarette. ―Get used to it,
son. Save yourself some heartache in the future.‖
Years later, Dave shared these memories with Rachel, expecting sympathy or
gratitude. He had endured the lectures of Mr. Pete, taking a pedantic bullet for the team.
Her reaction astonished him. She was disgusted — not at Mr. Pete, because she expected
the worst from that bastard. She was angry at David. For not telling Mom about the
critical remarks. For loyalty to his gender, not his family. ―If you told her half the shit
then, the stuff that you‘re now telling me, we‘d have left months before we did — simply
to keep those moronic ideas out of your head.‖
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What did she care? he answered. She was five or six when they left. ―It‘s not like
you‘re burdened with memories, like some of us.‖
Her look was withering. ―If you‘d taken a chance and opened your mouth, I
might not be stuck with any.‖
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The Trinity of Mr. Pete
David‘s toys were ruled by a clear triumvirate: G.I. Joe, Transformers, and Star
Wars.
Mr. Pete had a triad of his own: Laura‘s calves, clothing, and hair.
I. Calves
Pete had noticed her legs from the very beginning. He paired the crass statement
with a platitude — they carried her into his life — trying to mask the poor taste, the same
way he strung cheap air fresheners from his rear view mirror.
He admired their feminine cut: neither the twigs of a preteen waif, nor the trunks
on most women from East Logan — those mothers with toddlers on their hips, driving
their flesh into thighs and ankles. Whose bodies had succumbed to gravity. It was
amazing, the thought he devoted to the subject — the comments he shared with his
stepson.
The shift in his tone was gradual, the opening salvos innocuous. Nevertheless,
over time, Pete was converted from aficionado to critic. On a drive home from church,
they passed a billboard for the new fitness club. Would Laura be interested in a
membership? he asked. After all, it could be hard to get enough exercise in the winter.
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A week or two later, Mom described some changes at work: new responsibilities
at the end of each week. A few more hours behind a desk, a little less time on her feet.
Pete said nothing at the time. The following evening, however, he glanced up from his
plate and remarked — out of nowhere — that Laura should think about parking in the
middle of the lot. For a touch of exercise, given her new position.
―It‘s not that big a change,‖ she answered.
Neither was the suggestion, he mumbled.
―Last month, you were all concerned about my safety in that lot. Now, you want
me to park in a remote corner, simply to burn more calories?‖
―That‘s not what I said.‖
―Am I getting lazy? Is that what you‘re trying to tell me? Exercise, exercise,
exercise. Who are you, anyway? Arnold Schwarzenegger?‖
―You‘re not lazy. But maybe a little bit—‖ He paused, searching for the precise
word. ―A little bit soft.‖
Mom set down her fork. She stared at this new husband, sucking on her teeth.
―Soft? You‘re saying I‘m getting fat?‖
―Don‘t put words in my mouth.‖ Pete gestured with his knife. ―I was talking
about your routine, not your flesh.‖ It‘s wasn‘t as rigorous on the body, being married —
when you weren‘t doing everything on your own. He returned to his catfish and hush
puppies, adding a casual comment — Now that you mention it — that closed the trap.
―Now that you mention it, you ought to consider jogging — not much, just one or twice a
week. Maybe lifting some easy weights.‖
―Don‘t I work hard enough, going from room to room at the hospital?‖
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―I wouldn‘t know about that.‖
―No. You wouldn‘t.‖
David squirmed. He felt like an intruder, trapped near a discussion he shouldn‘t
be hearing. Pete lowered his voice. ―All I know, you‘re not as toned as you used to be
— back when we were first dating.‖
―I‘m getting older.‖
―Not that fast, I hope. Besides, all the more reason to change your habits now —
you won‘t have to worry about arthritis or brittle bones.‖
He let the matter drop. But a stack of VHS tapes appeared in the living room:
Kathy Ireland and Olivia Newton-John and women with ponytails, spandex bodysuits,
and sparkling teeth. A few nights a week — if Pete worked late or slipped out for a drink
— after she cleared the table and helped David and Rachel to bed, Mom selected a
routine and pushed herself through a half-hour workout.
David would lie in the darkness, listening, trying to follow her movements.
Unable to pick out the specific instructions — only the rise and fall of a perky voice, the
beat of the music and the cadence of the routine. If he held his body still, he could feel
his mother lunge. The floor would vibrate as she ran in place. The house was a body,
with a heartbeat that rattled into his spine, and his mother‘s footsteps provided the pulse.
II. Clothing
When it came to clothing, Pete‘s opinions were strong but tangled. On one hand,
he ached to showcase his bride. But the church stressed modesty: collared shirts on the
men, skirts that covered the knees on women. Shorts were acceptable for picnics, hikes,
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or softball games, as long as the inseams were six inches long. Culottes were the
preferred option for girls, and Rachel soon owned an entire pastel drawer. Pete was
positioning himself for deacon, and he wanted his family to dress the part.
He was known for his rants against liberal culture: Jane Fonda, Kim Basinger and
the other Hollywood harlots, the prelude to that great whore of Babylon in the book of
Revelation. So his options were limited. He couldn‘t prod Laura into low-cut tops, then
claim the moral high ground. In the end, he relegated the dilemma to her: critiquing her
choices, forcing her to unravel the puzzle — how to dress sexy enough to make him
happy, but proper enough to dodge his scorn.
He disparaged her preference for casual clothing. She didn‘t need to be sloppy at
home, just because she wore scrubs at the hospital.
―I‘m not sloppy,‖ she countered. ―When I‘m home, I want to relax.‖
They managed to compromise. Most days, she wore whatever she wanted. But
she bought a rotation of newer outfits: classic dresses for church, more provocative
fashions for weekend nights — those times that her husband slackened his Sunday
standards, hitting the town with his friends.
III. Hair
In the end, Pete‘s fixation with hair would produce the most drastic results.
Changes that lasted — in the case of that final, severe cut — long after they‘d slipped his
reach. A vivid reminder of all she had left behind.
Dave wanted to talk with his mother about this fetish. He worried a sliver had
rubbed off on him. Which made him afraid, concerned about the other habits and beliefs
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that he‘d absorbed from Mr. Pete. The demons that lurked from that short but formative
spell, waiting to rise to the surface.
He knew what she‘d say. Hair wasn‘t the issue. The problem was Pete‘s
insecurity. His low self-esteem forged a need for control, to emphasize his authority.
Too weak to lead on essential issues, he pressed his command over trivial matters.
Plus he was inconsistent. He couldn‘t decide what he actually wanted — a most
damnable trait in a bully.
Mom wore her hair long throughout college, based on photos still gracing his
father‘s mantel. Then — as new mothers often do — she cut it much shorter, adopting a
Carol Brady shag, not long after David‘s birth. When she returned to nursing school, she
trimmed the back to a practical, boyish style: easy to manage when rushing about the
hospital. Like Mary Lou Retton, the gymnastics hero from the LA Olympics. Once,
David found her a Mother‘s Day card that honored the resemblance. ―As mothers go . .
.‖ said the front, which featured a lady who balanced a baby and a tub of laundry; she was
about to trip on a roller skate. On the inside, the dotted lines showed her perfect flip,
landing on both feet with child and housework intact: ―. . . you‘re a perfect 10!‖
When they met, Pete spoke highly of her look. Like Princess Di, he claimed.
―But a brunette. With a Tennessee accent, not a British one.‖
But the style lost its allure. One night, a few months after the wedding, eating
dinner at a local steakhouse, Pete was especially polite to their waitress — a college
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student whose feathered mane had been glazed with Aquanet. It bobbed as a single,
frosted mass, keeping time with her hips as she crossed the room.
He raised the topic on the drive home. ―Have you thought about letting your hair
grow?‖ he asked. ―I‘ve never seen it beyond your shoulders.‖
Laura demurred. She wasn‘t nineteen anymore. She didn‘t have time for that
mess.
David recognized the tone. She had often used it on him — most recently, when
he suggested they throw her a birthday party at Chuck-E-Cheese.
Pete wasn‘t deterred. ―Maybe when you were single, looking after the boogers on
your own.‖ He glanced at the kids and grinned. ―Now that you‘ve got me to help, you
can spend some more time on yourself.‖
She patted him on the arm. ―That‘s sweet of you.‖
Rachel poked her brother on the arm and pretended to vomit.
―What? You‘ll deprive me of your glory, just because I arrived too late?‖
―I thought I was beautiful — Princess Di from Tennessee.‖
―You are beautiful,‖ he said. ―I thought you‘d enjoy the change, trying a new
style — a new look for a new season in life. What do you think, Davy? Wouldn‘t your
mother look smokin‘ hot with some longer hair?‖
―Pete!‖ The smack on the arm was light.
―I‘m serious. Grow it out, add some highlights — you‘d look just like Farah
Fawcett.‖
Mom softened to the flattery. ―You‘re sweet. But growing my hair would take
too long. Besides, it won‘t turn back time.‖
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―Come on — give yourself some credit. You‘re not even thirty.‖
―It‘s not the age. It‘s the mileage.‖ Her gaze seemed to drift from David to
Rachel. ―Not to mention the carry-ons.‖
Pete was persistent. He seasoned the fall with hints and proposals. That
Christmas, when they travelled south to Tennessee, Mom‘s hair touched her collar. The
next summer, it brushed her shoulder blades. Her bangs hung into her eyes, then she
pinned them back or tucked them behind her ear. She replaced the blow dryer with a
newer model and emerged for church with a windswept look, facing an onrushing storm.
The transformation was slow, constrained by the rate of growth: a year, the time it took to
gain half a foot. But the last stages came sudden.
David arrived home from school, eager to claim his afternoon rations — a CapriSun and five Oreos, one for each grade. In the kitchen, he skidded to a halt. At the
counter, cutting chicken with her back to the room, was a woman he‘d never met. Her
hair was a rich golden blonde, like a sunrise over her shoulders. When Mom turned, her
smile was also a question. A bid for reassurance, because even she — the most fearless
person he‘d ever met, at least until Rachel became a teen — even she was uncertain about
the new look.
He failed her. He ought to have raced her direction with a hug, insisting that she
was more beautiful than he remembered. But he didn‘t. Something about her pose — a
raw chicken thigh in one hand, a membrane-coated knife in the other. Part of it was her
outfit, the large, plastic apron — a gift from Mr. Pete‘s cousin with a picture of a child on
the front, standing on a stool and making a mess of the kitchen, pans and mixers and
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batter everywhere. ―Have Patience!‖ the caption insisted. ―God‘s Not Finished With Me
Yet!‖
The style was striking, no doubt about it. A mane of blonde waves that feathered
out, gaining volume with each new layer. She didn‘t look like his mother. She looked
like a woman trying to look like a model. She looked like the woman Mr. Pete wanted.
He dropped his bookbag and ran to his room. By the time she washed her hands
and followed, he had buried his face in a pillow, crying lightly.
Mom sat next to him on the bed, rubbing his shoulders. ―I don‘t look that
hideous, do I?‖
He shook his head. It was something else, something he couldn‘t explain.
Because it wasn‘t disgust or horror that forced him to hide his face. It was attraction —
not to his mother, but this parody she‘d become. He refused to look her in the eye, afraid
that the feeling would return.
―A bit ridiculous, I‘ll give you that. Certainly more like a bimbo.‖ Mom tried to
get him to laugh, telling this story about the cashier at the grocery store, the way home
from the beauty shop. How the clerk had explained the new scanner at the checkout,
telling her all about the lasers and UPC codes. ―Like I‘d never shopped there before, as if
Sally had bleached the IQ right out of my head.‖
Mom tousled David‘s hair. ―What about you? You used to be a blonde. Should I
take you with me, when it‘s time to touch up my roots? Ask Sally to bust out the
peroxide and bring me back my little boy?‖
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Pete seemed to be satisfied. The compliments returned, and he was eager to
parade his ―knockout hottie‖ throughout the town.
That fall was pleasant, the most peaceful season that David had ever known. Far
better than his earliest memories — living in Midfield, his parents divorced and
disappointed in themselves, shuttling him between the two apartments. Better than
Tennessee, that year they stayed with Mom‘s parents. As great as it was, with the birth of
his sister and hikes with Grandpa, the time was marred by disagreement. Mom had a
peculiar relationship with her father. She loved him, but she‘d never admit it to his face.
They got along fine, as long as they weren‘t in the same room.
Christmas brought the high water mark. A week before Christmas, to be precise,
with the hospital‘s annual banquet. Mom had received yet another promotion, and the
doctors were giving her more and more responsibilities. One even suggested — she
informed her son with pride — that he‘d recommend her for medical school, if she wasn‘t
so fine a nurse.
No one from church would be at the party, so she could pull out the stops for her
husband. Reaction had been mixed at Hayden Valley Tabernacle. The men raved about
her new look, but the women‘s remarks could be barbed. The older ladies told Laura
how ―modern‖ and ―fashionable‖ she looked. Which sounded fine, unless you knew
what they thought of those qualities. Young mothers would bemoan their own limp hair,
telling Laura they didn‘t have time for much styling these days — a backhanded way, she
informed her son, of hinting that she was neglecting her own responsibilities at home, if
she had the time to look the way she did. Then there was the Food Chain, the women
who cooked for ill or grieving families. Laura was seldom asked to participate: ―as if I
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couldn‘t possibly know how to bake a casserole, simply because their husbands think I‘m
cute.‖
The Christmas banquet would offer a chance to relax. To dance and laugh,
without worries that someone would think you were having too good a time. She decided
to dress the part: a black leather skirt that landed above her knees, paired with a silk
blouse that David had watched her select. He‘d suggested the ruby fabric, because he
was tired of shopping and wanted to get home, but he wasn‘t prepared for her entrance —
how magnificent she looked, once the entire outfit was put together. Her hair was bigger
than he could ever remember. It exploded out of her head, but with grace — the way
fireworks could be grand but elegant.
―What do you think?‖ She asked David and Rachel first, before turning to her
husband. Not that he noticed the slight, standing slack-jawed at the front door with her
nice winter coat. Awestruck by his good fortune, married to such an exquisite creature.
Their babysitter for the evening was a cousin — one of Grandpa‘s relatives,
scattered on farms throughout Hocking County. The preteen found the words that David
was struggling to form. ―Aunt Laura,‖ she said, ―you look stunning.‖
Relations
They had welcomed Laura with open arms, inviting her family to dinners
and picnics and seasonal reunions. David made friends with the boys, who led
him to caves and waterfalls, gorges and amphitheaters that didn‘t belong in Ohio.
That God meant for Utah or Wyoming but set down in the Hocking Hills —
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pausing to tie His sandals or chat with Elijah — and neglected to carry the rest of
the way.
The cousins all attended the same Baptist church, and David joined the E†B
Clubs on Wednesday night. Mr. Pete was skeptical of Cantwell Creek Baptist.
He disapproved of the pastor‘s theology. Plus, they were too program-based —
more concerned with fun and games than the kingdom of heaven. But the two
were compatible, in David‘s opinion. Besides, any church that annoyed Mr. Pete
had to be doing something right.
Later, after they returned to Midfield, his mother revealed that Pete had
attended Cantwell Creek in his early twenties. He had criticized a sermon by the
assistant pastor, issues he raised in a public forum — a Sunday School class —
rather than following the Matthew 18 guidelines for a confrontation. When an
elder suggested it wasn‘t the time or the place, Pete took the rebuke as an insult.
He wrote a nasty letter, questioning the spiritual integrity of the elders, and
warned that the church had been fettered with demonic blinders. When they
answered that he was the one who needed counseling, Peter resigned his
membership. After pit stops at two other churches in the county, he landed at
Hayden Valley.
Thus it was no surprise that Dave‘s uncles treated Pete with reserve. An
aunt had warned Laura about his past, back when they were dating. But Mom
wanted to give him a chance. After all, she wouldn‘t want people to judge her,
based on choices from years ago.
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Grandpa‘s relatives held their tongues, listening with patience as Pete sniped
at their church. An example, Dave felt, of the clear abundance of common sense
in that rural congregation.
―I‘m serious, Aunt Laura. You look amazing.‖
―Thanks, Rebecca. That‘s sweet.‖
―You‘ll be the hit of the party.‖
The statement roused Mr. Pete. Dave imagined a sparkle in his stepfather‘s eye: a
glimmer of pride, and an impish shadow that crossed his face. ―Think so?‖ He stepped
their direction, helping Mom with her coat. ―All the men — they won‘t be able to keep
their eyes off her?‖
Rebecca blushed. She didn‘t know what to say.
―Those doctors can look all they want, as long as they keep their hands to
themselves.‖
―Peter, you promised to be pleasant.‖
―I‘m always pleasant. Right, Davy?‖ He winked at his stepson. ―All I‘m saying
is, look but don‘t touch. Otherwise—‖ He pounded a fist into the opposite palm. ―It‘s
hard to do surgery with broken fingers.‖
―Peter!‖ Mom kissed David on the cheek and Rachel on the forehead. Her
perfume was rich and strong. She told them to listen to Rebecca and behave themselves.
―Come on,‖ Pete said. ―Let‘s go make some rich bastards jealous.‖
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They returned late, long after the kids had gone to bed. The next morning, a tense
silence had settled over the house. Mr. Pete worked in the carport all day, ignoring a
front that dropped temperatures into the twenties. Their mother was stoic and
inscrutable. Rachel peppered her with questions and received general, evasive answers.
The first half of the party had been pleasant, Mom said. Everyone had a good time.
What about the second half? Rachel asked.
The second half dragged for too long. People were tired. They had too many
drinks and opened their mouths without thinking.
In the cold war that followed, David pieced together the bitter remarks. The
holidays lacked any semblance of joy: the presents wired with explosives — triggered to
blow, the second you pulled on the ribbons.
He filled the gaps with guesswork and imagination. Mom had been the hit of the
party. Doctors praised her outfit, while nurses laughed at her wit. Pete surfed in her
wake. He basked in the margins of the spotlight, an important man in this educated
crowd.
Something broke the illusion. A surgeon had leaned too close, touching Laura‘s
arm as she smiled at an inside joke. A nurse told a story about a complex procedure,
grinning with sympathy at clueless Pete: the Emperor with No Scrubs. The slight may
have been subtle. A manager broke into a conversation and ruined his anecdote about
coons in the chimney. Perhaps he simply felt ignored. They weren‘t even mocking him,
because to taunt a person, you had to acknowledge them first. That nurse wasn‘t smiling
at the happy couple — she was confused by the mismatched pair, curious how a talented
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colleague had been saddled with such a loser. That anesthetist, the man with the bolo tie
who returned to her side throughout the evening, he was more than a friend. A suitor —
a lover, even — flirting beneath Pete‘s nose. It wasn‘t enough to cuckold him. No, they
were determined to humiliate the outsider, a Christmas pageant for the staff‘s amusement.
Sometimes, David pictured a confrontation. Pete setting his jaw and throwing a
wild punch. Dressing-down Mom in public, a venomous stream that revealed his own
black heart.
But, in the end, the fate David assigned was far worse: Pete‘s dawning awareness
that Mom was not cheating on him, that she would never cheat on him, but that she could
cheat on him, if that happened to be her inclination. Her coworkers thought her a martyr,
attached by fate to this dreadful man. Which would torture a man like him. If Laura had
been unfaithful, he could tap his reservoir of righteous indignation. Her loyalty rendered
him impotent. She stayed with him out of pity, and others pitied her choice.
Mr. Pete brooded for weeks. His jealousy grew. In late January, Mom dressed
for church in a navy outfit. It was formal and conservative — military, almost — with a
row of gold buttons that split the dress in half. On each shoulder, an additional button
was fasted to an epaulet that stood ramrod-straight, supported by padding along the
collarbone. But it wasn‘t the top that Mr. Pete condemned. The hemline grazed the top
of her knees, that no-man‘s land between modesty and moral turpitude. So that‘s what
it‘s come to, he sneered. Even at church.
―You pushed me to get this dress,‖ she replied. ―I asked you point blank, when
will I ever wear it, because I wasn‘t going to wear it out dancing, not dressed for a
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parade.‖ She adjusted the shoulder pads. ―And you said church. That it would look
stately and dignified, the way a deacon‘s wife ought to present herself.‖
―Apparently, I was mistaken.‖
―Next time, make up your mind before I clip the tags.‖ She refused to change.
They were already late, and sneaking into the back was less dignified than looking like a
tramp. She promised to stand with discretion, lest she tempt the young men with her
kneecaps.
The snide remarks became more frequent. They evolved into accusations, claims
that Mom had lost interest in him. That she kept him around for the paycheck,
bankrolling the wardrobe that flaunted her body to other men. Her denials were
vehement: furious some days, tearful on others. Every so often, they broke down in
tandem, pledging their passion anew. The shadow would lift. A week later, Pete would
be outside the bedroom door, timing how long she spent on her hair — his rage growing
with every second.
Then came his newest revelation. These would arrive on a regular basis. He
would repent, stumbling down the aisle, and confess any minor sins that had entered his
life. Petty issues, in David‘s opinion — never the problems that needed to be addressed.
Sometimes, amid these confessions, Pete would receive a ―vision‖ — an elaborate
scheme for the family or church to follow. Thus a three-week stretch with an hour of
Family Devotions each night, which started with balanced participation and ended as
monologues by Mr. Pete. Still, they were lucky. Pastor Harrison had to assure his flock
that Pete didn‘t speak for the church leadership. They had no intentions of planting a
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sister congregation in Logan, less than five miles up the road. That they weren‘t about to
build an expensive addition to the fellowship hall, with a bowling alley and Christian
arcade, so the teens had somewhere to go on Saturday nights. That despite Pete‘s
conviction about the Holy Spirit‘s call, they wouldn‘t construct an altar on the floor of
Ash Cave — for monthly reenactments of Abraham and Isaac.
So David was skeptical when Pete walked the aisle that February, his eyes welling
with tears. He was guilty of hoarding, he declared — craving the things of this world and
teaching his family to lust for possessions and worldly beauty. He was repenting,
renouncing his misguided state. He would cleanse their house of false idols, the way
Othniel and Ehud had purged the land of the Canaanites.
Pastor Harrison applauded his resolve: thankful, David guessed, that the vision
concerned Pete‘s home and not the church. But David himself was wary, an instinct that
proved correct.
The campaign opened in Mom‘s closet, starting with the gold button dress and the
outfit from the Christmas party. Pete sacrificed a few possessions — a threadbare
Nazareth t-shirt that he used for moving the yard, a leisure suit that he never wore — but
the bulk of the contributions belonged to his wife. The altar of clothing grew on the
living room floor, set aside for destruction.
She was all for scaling back, she said. Perhaps he might be going a step too far?
―Too far?‖ he answered. ―Not to ensure the integrity of this family. I‘ll burn
down the walls of this house, if that what it‘s going to take.‖
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―I just wish you‘d thought of it sooner, before throwing out clothes that I only
wore once or twice.‖
―What does it profit a man, if he gains the whole world but loses his soul?‖
Besides, he argued, he could donate the pile to Goodwill and deduct the contribution
from their taxes.
Why offer the garments to the poor, if the garments were such a dangerous
influence? Why not burn them to ashes? Like his ceremonial bonfire at the Harvest
Festival, when he‘d collected the relics from his personal Axis of Evil — Madonna,
Michael Jackson, and Pee-Wee Herman — and doused them with gasoline.
―What about that?‖ Mom stood at the window and pointed at the new satellite
dish. ―Will that be leaving as well?‖ Pete had installed the eyesore against her wishes.
Pete launched into a defense of cable TV, the religious programs that couldn‘t be
found on the secular channels. Besides, he argued, it‘s not what goes into the body that
corrupts a man. What comes out is what makes you unclean.
Mom fought a defensive campaign, working to slow his advance. She submitted
to his demands and spent less time on her hair, which seemed to deflate, hanging limp at
the sides of her head. The roots began to show: a dark line emerged down her center part.
―I need to do something about it,‖ she told him.
―You need to focus on what‘s important.‖
―I hardly even comb it. Do you want me to cut it short, like Mia Farrow? Is that
what you‘re trying to achieve?‖
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―You‘d like that too much, wouldn‘t you?‖ Mr. Pete leaned an elbow on the
table. He cupped chin in palm and gauged his wife with a critical eye, a sculptor
examining granite. ―We need to tame that lust for attention. Something plain — a look
that broadcasts your role as a wife and a mother.‖
―What‘s this for?‖ Mom raised her left hand and wiggled the ring finger. She
gestured at her kids. ―Not to mention Batman and Robin.‖
―True, true. But you‘re mixing the message. That ring implies contentment; your
style claims something else, like you‘re working the market for an upgrade.‖
―A knockout hottie. Isn‘t that what you wanted to flaunt on your arm?‖ She
pushed back her chair, frustrated. ―Wait, don‘t tell me — you were mistaken.‖
Mr. Pete shrugged.
She let out a breath, resigned to some new humiliation. ―Great. Why do I already
know, you‘ve got something wonderful in mind?‖
The next week, they spent the afternoon at Hair Apparent — a trailer on the
outskirts of town. A friend of Pete‘s aunt had converted it to a salon. Her specialty was
traditional styles and cuts, he explained. The narrow space was crowded, and a thick,
chemical smell seemed to hover in the air. Rachel pinched her nose and said P.U. There
was a barbershop chair and a sink with a notch cut into the front — like a guillotine,
thought David. Backed against a wall, two chairs sat beneath large plastic domes. They
looked like something from a space movie, brainwashing machines or mind-control
devices. He mentioned the idea. Pretty accurate, said Mom. But they could also be
used to dry hair.
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Mary Jo wore a black smock with pockets. Her light gray hair was short and
parted on the side. It suited her demeanor: polite and businesslike. She welcomed the
foursome, guiding Laura to the chair and wrapping her in a cape. ―We‘ll start with your
mother,‖ she told the kids. ―Since her new look‘s going to take the longest.‖ She spoke
to Mom‘s reflection in the mirror, brushing the mane and gathering a thick ponytail.
―Like we discussed on the phone?‖
Mom nodded. She started to open her mouth, then closed it.
Mary Jo chopped with the scissors: it took multiple tries to break all the way
through. The locks that remained swung loose at Mom‘s chin, the ends jagged and
uneven. Mary Jo held out the ponytail. ―Want to keep this? A souvenir?‖
―Ask Pete — it‘s his trophy.‖
―Toss it.‖ He was standing a few yards away, shifting his weight from foot to
foot. He looked like he needed to pee.
Mary Jo shrugged and dropped the hair in a small wastebasket. The sound of it
hitting the pile was awful, a yearlong effort tossed out with the daily rubbish. Now the
scissors moved fast, attacking the locks that remained. Long, blonde strands fell to the
floor. Then shorter, much darker pieces were falling as well. They slid down the cape
and piled in Mom‘s lap.
Her face was grim. Like a lamb led to slaughter, or a sheep to its shearing. Christ
before His accusers, refusing to open His mouth.
David couldn‘t stop watching. As the mane disappeared, an old friend returned.
Mary Lou was back and eager to hit the tumbling mat — not groomed for a fashion
shoot.
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The sound of the clippers surprised him. For a second, the buzz made him think
of the shop where he and Mr. Pete usually went for cuts. Mary Jo held Mom‘s head with
one hand, pushing her chin toward her chest. She asked something about the hairline and
gestured with the electric shears. When Mr. Pete nodded, she clippered the back of
Mom‘s neck. A ribbon of pale, white skin extended from ear to ear.
A tray with rollers emerged, and his mother appeared to relax — resigned to her
fate. She chatted with Mary Jo. The beautician worked with amazing speed, wrapping
the hair on the small, colored rods. It astonished David, the way she could laugh and joke
as her finger explored Mom‘s scalp — moving with a will of their own, twisting the locks
into barrels. When you played with Transformers, it became second-nature to change the
robots into machines. You didn‘t have to think about each step as you raced to imitate
the Autobots and the Decepticons in the cartoon. Mary Jo‘s hands possessed that kind of
quickness.
She squirted Mom‘s head with liquid from a plastic bottle. She seemed to be
dousing them good, the way Mr. Pete soaked charcoal briquettes with lighter fluid. Mom
contorted her face at the pungent odor, this aroma that seemed to permeate the shop. The
solution was strong, explained Mary Jo. It was Laura‘s first perm, and they wanted the
curls to hold.
Then Mom was under the blow dryer. Mary Jo called for David. Soon, his sides
and back had been clippered short. He couldn‘t stop rubbing his head when she finished.
Mary Jo laughed at the reaction. ―Don‘t you look nice? Come summer, when it‘s time
for your Mom‘s next appointment, I‘ll give you a proper buzz.‖ She pretended to run the
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clippers down the center of his head. ―Maybe a flat top, if you‘d like something really
sharp.‖
His sister was defiant. She refused to sit in the chair. ―Please, Rachel,‖ called
Mom. She talked louder than needed, speaking above the roar of the dryer in her ears.
Her daughter marched to the chair, grinning at Mr. Pete — making it clear whose rule she
followed. ―Like hers.‖ She pointed at Mom.
―What‘s that?‖ asked Mary Jo. ―You want to become a Curly Sue, too?‖
David‘s breath caught in his throat. He was afraid of being the odd man out — left
behind in his old body, while the girls were transformed.
―Nothing too short,‖ called Mom.
In a few minutes, Rachel was sporting a tomboy cut. She scowled at the mirror
— annoyed at the change. Then a grin broke across her face. She was finally equipped
for some real trouble.
Mary Jo helped her from the chair. ―In a few years, we‘ll try your first perm and
turn you into a cute little poodle.‖
David lost track of the process. Mom would be out from the dryer, then back. A
new solution was applied. Pete stepped outside for a smoke. David flipped through the
magazines, hoping in vain for a Sports Illustrated or a Reader’s Digest.
Then Mom was in the chair, her hair covered with a towel. ―Ready?‖ asked Mary
Jo.
―As I‘ll ever be, I suppose.‖
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―You‘ll get used to it. I remember the shock, my first bubble cut. Lost a lot more
hair than you, love.‖ She laughed. ―You‘ll save time in the morning. The curls will fall
into place — no choice about that, no need to fret about styling.‖
―Pete should be pleased.‖
―I want you to be pleased, not Pete.‖
Mary Jo removed the towel. Rachel sucked in her breath. Mom‘s hair had shrunk
into a dense mass of tiny curls. The beautician allowed a quick glance, then turned the
chair from the mirror. ―Let me finish, and I‘ll give you a closer look.‖ She picked at the
locks, adding volume and evening out the style.
Mom had already seen enough. She wiped something from her eye. ―I look
ridiculous,‖ she said. ―I look like a Chia Pet.‖
―You look feminine.‖ Mary Jo trimmed a few strays, making sure that the sphere
was smooth and uniform. ―They‘ll be tight for a few weeks, because of the strong
solution. But they‘ll loosen in a month or two.‖
The knot in David‘s stomach moved deep inside his body. He wanted to touch
them, to push on the sponge of hair and feel how soft it actually was.
Mary Jo gave Mom a hand mirror and showed her the back — the style was short
on the neck, high enough to stay above her collar. Mr. Pete returned from the outside.
―Oh my God,‖ he said. ―It‘s so curly.‖ He circled the chair and examined the style.
―You look so . . . different.‖
―Isn‘t she darling?‖ asked Mary Jo, proud of her work. ―A traditional bubble cut.
The style she ordered, if not what she wanted.‖
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―It‘s perfect.‖ He asked about the sides and back, whether they might go even
shorter.
―Maybe next time. Give her a chance to get used to the poodle first.‖
Pete accepted the verdict and stepped back, admiring the new, conservative look
— his masterpiece. ―It‘s perfect.‖
―Glad you think so,‖ said Mom. ―Because it‘s not going anywhere, even if you
change your mind.‖
No, said Mr. Pete. He pressed on the curls with a hand. When he let go, the style
sprung back into shape. ―You‘ll be keeping this look for a long, long time.‖
The rest of that day, David followed his mother around the house. Every time she
turned around, he was staring at her curls. Finally, she had enough. This game he was
playing was driving her nuts. She told him to get outside and stop acting like a creep.
A half hour later, he snuck back inside. Mom was standing at the bathroom
mirror, turning her head from side to side. She felt the bristles on her neck and sighed.
―Let‘s see if this makes him happy.‖ The line was so quiet, David could never recall if
she actually said it out loud.
Pete was pleased with the cut. He praised the look‘s modesty and the values it
suggested. She looked like a proper housewife, he said. But he never called her
beautiful.
The women at church were delighted. The ladies adored her new style, as if she‘d
finally set aside her pride and accepted her role and place. The men were less
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enthusiastic, their comments neutral and polite. One by one, they turned away with a hint
of sadness. Something wonderful had vanished from their lives.
Did the doctors like the new style? Pete asked. Did they still wallow at her feet,
now that she was a plain Jane? Had they turned their flirtations to younger nurses, now
that she looked her age?
David found her at the nightstand, staring into the mirror. He squeezed her from
behind, then buried his face in her curls. They still smelled like the beauty shop. It
repulsed him at first, but after a while, he‘d started to long for that vivid scent.
She pulled a few ringlets straight, two or three inches at most. On release, they
sprung back to a coil. ―David, David,‖ she said. ―What have I done?‖
She treated the look too harshly, in his opinion. The cut was anything but plain.
She was less elegant than before, true. But she also seemed kinder. In a strange way, the
style even felt rebellious, as dramatic a step as a Mohawk or purple hair. She‘d sacrificed
her looks for a greater cause, a disguise for invading the enemy‘s camp. He didn‘t want
to see her any other way.
Later, he understood the truth: she wasn‘t talking about the perm; she was talking
about her marriage.
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Mr. Pete’s Speech: A Close Reading & Deconstruction (Continued)
They never returned to Hair Apparent. By late March, Dave‘s father had
appeared with an unfamiliar station wagon, and they left for Midfield in the middle of the
night. To Dad‘s credit, he said nothing about the makeover. Though given the doubletake when he arrived, it must have been quite a shock.
The perm wasn‘t the tipping point. Mom wore the new look with poise. She
endured the dismay from her colleagues — ―What have you done to your beautiful
hair!?‖ — that gave way to indignation, as rumors began to circulate. Not because Laura
revealed the story, but because she was steadfast in her denials. Too steadfast, her friends
believed. The style was easy to maintain, she insisted; she could wash it and leave the
house on errands, unconcerned about how it would dry. They ignored the charade.
But Mom was stubborn, determined to ride out the storm. It would take more
than butchered locks to drive her away for good.
3b. ―Midfield’s loss, but Hocking County’s gain.‖
In the gospel according to Peter Coates, East Logan was the best town in the best
state in the greatest country in the history of the world. It was his hometown, after all. It
would have to be the best, because he was the best. Indeed, in Pete‘s thinking, the
greatest asset of Hocking County was the outstanding men the land produced.
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He knew how to run a government — unlike those clowns in Columbus and
Washington. He possessed common sense — which made him smarter than the liberals
and hippie freakniks down at Ohio University, the cancer that spread throughout Athens.
He was even a genius at sports: he knew more about coaching a football team than any
man in Ohio, with the possible exception of Woody Hayes. Yes, sir. When he looked in
the mirror, he faced the strongest, fastest, smartest, luckiest, most upright man that he‘d
meet that day. The rest of the country would know his name, once a chance or two broke
his way. If that‘s what he wanted, of course. Because the life he lived in East Logan?
He wouldn‘t have it any other way.
When a new business moved to town, the region was ripe for economic
development. If companies left, the district was guarding its natural beauty. The locals
were rural enough to be tough, urban enough to be sophisticated, and the perfect balance
of insight, wisdom and integrity. Their children were more athletic and better-looking.
They lived too far north to be Rednecks, but far enough south to curse at Yankees. Too
far east to be Midwest hicks, yet hundreds of miles from New York City. Even further
from LA, San Francisco, or the Kennedy family. They enjoyed Appalachian-style
wildlife, without all the strip mines and banjo music that haunted West Virginia.
Thus it was only natural, that shift from praise of East Logan to trash-talk about
Midfield. If folks wanted to settle elsewhere — someplace as boring as northeast Ohio
— they had to be pretty dumb. If Pete despised a new trend — hip-hop music or acidwashed jeans — ―they probably liked it in Midfield.‖ When David dropped a football, he
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was ―Midfield Clumsy.‖ If he didn‘t know something — how a 6-cylinder engine
worked, or the correct way to hold a rifle — he was simply ―Midfield Dumb.‖
David saw his father on a regular basis: a weekend each month, and a longer stay
during the summer and winter breaks. When he returned, the hostility was intense. All
Midfield residents drew Pete‘s contempt, but Charles Kingman was the Chief Fool. For
some reason — to justify his wife‘s first marriage, most likely — Pete believed that the
Kingmans were filthy rich. But they hadn‘t earned this wealth — they weren‘t smart
enough or tough enough for that. They hoarded their treasure, passing an ancient
inheritance from one generation to the next, and kept the fortune from the hard-working,
blue-collar Americans who truly deserved it.
Financial Disclosure
• Pete Coates was mistaken. The Kingmans were comfortable — especially
Dave‘s Grandparents — but they were also generous. They fed their resources
into the community, into church, school, and local charities. Citing the parable of
the talents, which rebukes the servant who buries the Master‘s assets. They
received benefits from this generosity, to be sure — influence with the ministries
they supported, input on major decisions. Still, there wasn‘t a Kingman mint, as
Pete surmised.
• Charles paid child support for his son. When Rachel was born, he tried to
double the amount. She might not be his child, but she was certainly a child. He
wanted to offer support. Laura refused to accept the money. When he sent the
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funds anyway, she simply cashed every other check. She tore the rest in half and
mailed them back to Charles, until he resigned himself to his ex-wife‘s will.
Of course, Pete‘s central grudge against Charles Kingman was the fate that united
their lives: they both had the (mis)fortune to fall in love with Laura Walker. And the root
of Pete‘s scorn was that Charles had reached her first, then proved too weak a man to
hold her in check. It must have driven Pete wild, knowing this lesser man had shared her
bed. It ate at his pride, living with proof of her sexual fecundity.
Pete badgered his stepson for intelligence: the kind of man his father was, the
relationship his parents had shared, and — more and more often — if Charles left Laura
or she left him. He sprinkled their talks with leading statements: ―Your Dad probably
regrets his decision, walking away from your Mom like he did,‖ or ―I really admire your
mother, the courage to ditch that worthless man.‖ David tried to be noncommittal. He
knew Grandmother‘s take on her son‘s divorce, and Dad had alluded to the subject —
noting his own mother‘s bias. But David hadn‘t learned Mom‘s account, not then.
Besides, even if he had known, he wouldn‘t have told. It pleased him, these pieces of life
that were hidden from Mr. Pete.
The more Pete failed to learn, the nastier he became. He disparaged the manhood
of Charles Kingman; he questioned his sexuality. What kind of man loses that much
control, he asked, that his wife hauls away and leaves him behind? Not him. When a
man marries a woman, he cleaves to her. Mr. Pete would dissect the word cleave, how it
meant wrapping yourself around a person‘s body: ―like a bear, climbing the trunk of a
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tree.‖ You had to be stubborn. You refused to release your grip. ―Now that I‘ve
cleaved myself to your mother,‖ he said, ―I won‘t let her go.‖
Which made Charles an even more vexing problem. Suppose he was the partner
that chose to leave: it meant that Laura had been faithful. But it also meant that she fell
short of her husband‘s desires. Discarded goods held little appeal to Mr. Pete. On the
other hand, if she ditched Charles, what did that reveal about her attitude toward
marriage? Pete grew more and more obsessed with the question. If Laura had left her
first love, the father of her children, what kept her from leaving him?
They were driving home, talking about the holiday. It was the first Christmas
they had been married, Pete‘s only visit to Maryville. Laura was concerned about her
mother. More than ever, Lily was distant: living in the past — the childhood farm that
had disappeared, claimed for the state and flooded by the TVA. As they talked, Grandpa
would pilot her into the conversation — like a miner in a tunnel, calling out directions to
a partner with a fading lamp. He guided her back to the surface with the sound of his
voice.
Grandma‘s Country
Grandma had always been quiet, as long as David could remember. Her
manners were impeccable: sweet tea in the afternoon and Mayfield Ice Cream for
dessert. The grandkids adored her accent. On summer nights, they would imitate
her pitch from the twin beds in the spare room. They opened the window,
regardless of the heat, and the insect drone thickened their mock-Southern twang.
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If he altered the way he talked, would it change the way he saw the world?
Were the colors a different hue in Grandma‘s eyes?
She would sit on the porch, smiling at the conversation, but she seldom
added her own two cents. The longer she was quiet, the more distant she grew.
Grandpa would speak to her in a gentle voice, calling her back to the present.
Sometimes he‘d tease her — ―Travelling again, my love?‖ or ―Visiting home,
sweetheart?‖ — and she would smile in response. His tone could mesh fondness
and sorrow, like the old-time country songs — the stations Mom played on the
drive to Tennessee.
Grandma managed their house with ease. The daily tasks had become
second nature, now that she‘d practiced them thousands of times. Which only
encouraged her mind to wander. As a child, David had already sensed this divide.
Lily lived with Grandpa in Maryville, but her true country was somewhere else,
someplace far away — distant in space and time.
Her father overlooked some of the changes, Mom felt. ―They happen so
gradually, you can only see them when you‘ve been away.‖
―Plus his own memory,‖ said Pete. ―It‘s not what it used to be.‖
―He seemed pretty sharp to me.‖
―He called you Laurel the entire visit.‖
Mom laughed. ―That‘s not Alzheimer‘s — that‘s good old-fashioned
stubbornness. Laurel‘s the name he gave me.‖
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Pete wanted to know what she meant. ―Did your mother have other plans? She
refused to name her only child for a bush?‖
―She didn‘t have much to say. She was shocked from the labor — not to mention
I wasn‘t that boy she expected.‖
Her name had been Laurel from birth, she explained. All throughout her
childhood. She changed it herself, the year she turned eighteen and moved to Ohio
University. ―You know, a new name for a new start in life. Laurel had too much
Tennessee in it.‖ Now, looking back, it was just an attempt to wound her father. ―It
worked.‖
David was starting to feel carsick. They seemed to be crossing unstable ground.
―I can‘t believe it,‖ Pete said. ―Your name . . . it‘s not actually Laura?‖
―Well, it is now. But I‘ve thought about changing it back. Maybe even selecting
something new .‖ She turned to her kids. ―Any suggestions, there in the peanut gallery?‖
Rachel proposed her own name, so they could be twins. Mom said that was too
confusing, and David‘s sister tried the name Cherries Jubilee — her favorite My Little
Pony.
―Cherries Jubilee? People would think I‘m a stripper.‖
―A stripper?‖
Mom thought for a second. ―Someone who loses things for money.‖ She glanced
at Mr. Pete, who was still upset — distressed at this serious revelation. ―Come on,‖ she
said. ―It‘s not a big deal. You’re the one who‘s always pushing me to try something
new.‖
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He shook his head: a name was a big deal. It was different than a haircut or a new
outfit.
―If you doubt me, check my birth certificate.‖
―I believe you — that‘s the problem. What I can‘t believe, is that you never
bothered to mention it before.‖
―I‘m telling you now. Like I said, it didn‘t seem that important.‖
They‘d been married for half a year, he observed. ―All that time, I didn‘t even
know my wife‘s name.‖
Mom tried to drop the subject, but Pete couldn‘t let it go. He was embarrassed by
his ignorance, terrified of his new wife‘s secrets.
David was shaken as well, struck by the fact that Mom had a life of her own. She
was more than a character in his own story. Which startled him, that she saw the world
through her own set of eyes. That her tale had preceded his arrival. That as hard as he
stared at the back of her head, he could never read her mind.
4. Her children were well-behaved and respectful: a credit to their mother, considering
―the disruptions of their youth.‖
Now and then, after a moving sermon or a sentimental movie, Pete would soften
his treatment of David and Rachel. His eyes would be opened — as if he finally grasped
his calling as a stepfather. Yet this kindness was laced with condescension: they‘d been
poorly trained, and it fell to him to educate their souls.
One week — an especially good week for David, with a goal in his soccer game
and a perfect score on a math test — Mr. Pete had treated him to ice cream at the DQ. He
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praised his stepson‘s ―God-given talents.‖ If David got faster and stronger, he might
even switch from soccer to football in junior high. He‘d transcended the weak Kingman
blood. With enough hard work, said Mr. Pete, he had a real chance to make something of
himself.
Pete didn‘t know what to think about Rachel. Most times, he treated her like a
caricature of a little girl — dolls and dresses, the things he felt she ought to like. She
refused to play along. She could out-spit, out-run, and out-slug most boys her age.
Rachel talked back to authority, and her punishments had little effect — whether a week
without TV or a smack with the wooden spoon. Mom‘s patience grew thin. ―If you‘re
this much trouble in Kindergarten,‖ she would ask, what will I do when you‘ve grown?‖
One thing about Rachel pleased Mr. Pete: she had nothing but contempt for
Midfield, a child after his own heart. Most of the time, when David visited his father,
Rachel stayed behind. Pete called it a wise decision, a sign of her judgment and taste,
favoring East Logan as she did — an indication she might outgrow the foolishness of her
youth.
He raised the subject in the carport. ―What‘s so special about Midfield, that you
always look forward to visits?‖
His stepson shrugged, in a foul mood, called away from a dramatic showdown
between Optimus Prime and the Rancor Monster. Plus, he was mad at Rachel, who threw
a fit at the video store that afternoon. Mom had succumbed to the pressure, renting The
Black Stallion, not Herbie Goes Bananas. It was a side effect of her new, curly look —
she gave in more easily than she used to.
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―I mean, your sister doesn‘t seem to like it.‖
Mr. Pete could be dumber than Jabba the Hutt. ―She‘s not invited,‖ David said.
―Grandmother doesn‘t like her.‖
Pete stopped fiddling with the new leaf blower. ―Your Grandmother doesn’t like
her? What kind of grandmothers do you have in Midfield, who don‘t let their
granddaughters visit?‖
Dave and his mother would debate the incident for years. He would admit to
dropping the spark, igniting the firestorm that followed. But he refused to accept further
blame. She cited a secret agreement, an unwritten pact that Mr. Pete didn’t have to know
everything about their lives before Hocking County. Which was a good policy, Dave
answered. Except for one thing: she failed to inform her son.
―Rachel‘s not her granddaughter.‖
―Not her granddaughter?‖ asked Mr. Pete. ―What‘s that supposed to mean?
Who‘s Rachel‘s father?‖
David shrugged. ―Nobody knows.‖
―Somebody knows. Your mother knows.‖
The interrogation lasted for less than a minute. Soon, Mr. Pete had disappeared,
and voices in the house grew loud. David lingered on the carport, knowing he said too
much. He thought about trundling: tossing a stone down a steep incline and listening to it
fall. Grandpa frowned on the practice. It could be fun, he said, watching it carom down
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the slope. But the rock could injure a hiker they didn‘t see. A single boulder could start
an avalanche.
When he finally slunk inside, loathe to witness his creation, Mom and Pete had
covered the primary themes. They were poised for a second lap, each circling for a fresh
strafing run — a course they‘d repeat in the coming weeks, over and over and over again.
Pete called her a loose woman, a cheater who destroyed her first marriage. Now,
she was hacking away at her second. Mom refuted the claim with vigor. She and
Charles had been divorced for two years before Rachel was conceived. In fact, they were
close to reconciling. Then Mom learned she was pregnant: ―which sort of derailed the
plans.‖
―He dodged a bullet on that one, don‘t you think?‖
―He was heartbroken, if you want to know the truth.‖
Pete snorted. The truth was the last thing he wanted — the last thing he expected
from her mouth, at least.
―And I was heartbroken, breaking it.‖
―You should have considered that, before crawling in bed with another man.‖
―You‘re right. I was young and lonely and I ruined our chance to get back
together. Trust me — you don‘t want to know how many nights I lose sleep, thinking
about that. But I didn‘t cheat. I would never cheat on my husband, whoever he was.‖
You won‘t have to worry about that temptation, he said. Not now. Not with that
mini-Afro on your head.
My hair will grow back. You‘re stuck with that heart for the rest of your life.
260
The argument had a number of variations, but it always returned to the same basic
chord: Pete demanded to know Rachel‘s father, and Laura refused to identify the name.
It was a secret, she said — protected by her, the father, and God. If Rachel
wanted to know, Mom would tell her on her 18th birthday. Then, her daughter could
choose a name for herself.
So far, Rachel had shown little interest. She didn‘t have a father. She didn‘t need
one.
Charles had wanted to know the name. In the end, it was the secrecy that kept
them from reuniting — not the illegitimate daughter. Which was a mistake to tell Pete.
He grew far more determined — resolved on having his way — once he learned that the
name had eluded his rival.
She wouldn‘t budge. Her brilliant generalship was revealed at last. She had
ceded the battles that didn‘t count — sacrificing pride, her looks, appearing to surrender.
All the while, she was biding her time and securing the final defense. Which, in the end,
was the greatest blow to Mr. Pete. All those months, he thought he had seized control. In
reality, he was driving the spike in his kingdom‘s heart — impaling himself on his wife‘s
resolve.
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Interview Transcript: Laura Walker
INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT – Laura Walker
Maryville, Tennessee
January 19, 2011
EXCERPTS ONLY. COMPLETE TRANSCRIPT AVAILABLE.
M.F. – (Summarizes the chapter on Mr. Pete -- the account
that her son provided. Offers to send her the chapter, for
confirmation of dates and events, once he’s finished with
the draft.)
L.W. – That’s how David describes what happened? That’s
what he told you? (Shakes her head) Well, you know my son
-- he’ll take a silly, four-minute speech and explain two
years away.
(Snaps her fingers.) Like that. Should have
been a science teacher, the way he likes to dissect things.
. . .
That’s the thing about hash. Grind the pieces small
enough, no one can tell the original cut. . . .
M.F. – (Asks about Pete and the carport monologues)
L.W. – Rachel mentioned those to me. Says David claims
that Pete forced him to listen -– filling his head with
those crazy beliefs. (Laughs.) And some of Pete’s
beliefs? Believe me, they were pretty loony. . . .
That first summer we were married, Peter couldn’t step
outside without David on his trail, asking him what he was
doing. Poor Pete couldn’t shake him. Like a stray puppy – feed it once, game over, it’s following you for life. . .
.
This continued for weeks, mind you, until one day,
Peter shoved a broom in my son’s hand. Said he could hang
about the carport. But he might as well make himself
useful. . . .
M.F. – (Hesitates, then mentions the perm.)
L.W. - The perm. (Pretends to scream in frustration, then
throws her hands in the air.) Everybody wants to talk
262
about the perm. Even Rachel still teases me. I don’t see
why. It wasn’t that big a deal, not in the grand scheme of
things. . . .
Let me guess. In my son’s account, Pete straps me to
the chair and rolls the rods himself. It wouldn’t cross
David’s mind, I suppose, that the look was originally my
idea. I wanted a change, tired of all the coloring and
blow-drying and styling. I had better uses for my time. I
wanted something simple. . . . All that attention I was
getting? Mind you, I was getting plenty of attention.
That part’s pretty accurate. But it was exhausting. Every
now and then, it’s nice to look plain -- like the girl next
door that you pass without a second thought. People leave
you alone. You can mind your own business and enjoy life.
. . .
You’ve got to remember –- this was the eighties.
Everyone had perms in the eighties. Glenn Close, Barbara
Streisand, Jennifer Grey. Even Madonna. Of course, once
Pete caught wind of my scheme, he insisted on grabbing
control of the makeover –- he wanted to turn me into this
proper, conservative girl. . . . I looked less like Cher,
more like a poodle.
Still, you need to adjust your expectations. You
should have seen the women in our church, back in Hayden
Valley. Half of them wore these tight, super-curly dos
that clung to their heads like army helmets. Storm
Troopers, David liked to call them. . . . If anything, my
new look stamped my membership card. . . .
M.F. – (Comments, with a touch of chagrin, that her version
of events seems so different, he might need to rewrite the
chapter. He tried to include multiple perspectives, but .
. . for the most part, admits his reliance on interviews
with her son. Hours and hours of interviews, he hints –
not without a slight grimace.)
L.W. – (Laughs, says that M.F. is a saint – that even she
couldn’t listen to her son’s nonsense for that long. Says
to use David’s account, not hers. Says not to worry so
much about being accurate: David’s version would be more
interesting . . . even if it wasn’t entirely the truth.)
L.W. – Don’t get me wrong. I’m not excusing Pete. Peter
could be an ass, and the first time he swung, I knew we
were through. But he wasn’t always an ass. I loved him
enough to marry him, remember? . . .
263
What you need to understand about my son, when he
tells you these stories and you write them in your book, is
that he treats people like they were characters. Like
caricatures, really. He settles on one or two traits, then
treats them like the Rosetta Stone –- the key to that
person’s life. Everything about them, he interprets with
that single lens. . . . And when a detail won’t fit his
vision, he simply ignores it. . . .
Like this doctor I knew. Legendary for his accuracy,
for making the correct diagnosis in less than a minute.
Insurance companies loved him. But he lost a few patients,
a handful of random cases. When the obvious disease was
merely a decoy. When it masked the real problem, the far
more dangerous culprit. . . .
264
Interview Transcript: Patricia Kingman
INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT – Patricia Kingman
Midfield, Ohio
December 12, 2010
EXCERPTS ONLY.
COMPLETE TRANSCRIPT AVAILABLE
P.K. – He had a bright future, my son. She claimed it with
that Southern accent and wild spirit. Then, once she had
him, she crushed his heart. . . .
He should have gone to Ohio State for his Master’s
degree. That way, they never would have met. Charles was
smart enough, top five in his class at Fischer -- no small
feat, let me tell you. But he liked this professor at Ohio
University, something about his original take on the global
economy. There is nothing new under the sun, I told him,
not even at Ohio University. Besides, he would need a
traditional background, with a firm grasp on the
fundamentals. After all, that’s what he’d be teaching at
Fischer.
It’s where he was destined, of course -- after he
earned his doctorate. Where the Lord had called him to be.
(Shakes her head.) He would have been brilliant, a student
favorite. Department Head, Provost like my Uncle Jacob.
That was his calling, but that girl flung herself in his
path. . . .
M.F. – (Questions her depiction of Laura’s actions.)
P.K. – (Laughs) Of course she did. He was a graduate
student; he knew the risks of dating a co-ed. Mind you, I
can understand her attraction. Charles was older and wise,
an attractive man with a financially stable future. And
Laura -- well, I’ll say this about her: she was like
nothing he’d ever met. . . .
I was disappointed by his choice. I won’t lie. . . .
He dated so many nice girls at Fischer. Surely one of them
. . . one of them would have made a suitable match:
Reformed in doctrine and manners. . . .
Still, I was willing to give her a chance, since
Charles was set on the marriage. I danced at their
265
wedding, down in Tennessee. A pleasant affair, if modest.
Her father seemed wise -- he was skeptical too, like I was.
Her mother, I can’t quite recall. . . .
I threw them a handsome party in Midfield, once they’d
returned from the honeymoon, for the relatives and friends
who couldn’t attend the wedding. Some of them hadn’t
received invitations, given the size of the venue. . . .
I should have been more enthusiastic, when they told
us that Laura was pregnant. It’s not that I wasn’t
excited. I wanted to be a Grandmother, but I wasn’t ready.
When you become a grandparent, you realize how much time
has passed. You think about all that you might have done,
and all that you didn’t do. You think. . . . Well,
whatever it is you think, I wasn’t prepared to think about
it.
M.F. – (Asks whether Charles was ready to be a father.)
P.K. – Of course he wasn’t. (A look of scorn.) They’d
only been married, what? -- five, six months when they
broke the news. (Pauses, seems to reconsider.) If you
mean, was he ready to handle the responsibility? Then yes,
of course Charles was prepared. He was always a
responsible boy. Still, I worried how he would react,
given the added pressure. . . .
So I wasn’t surprised when he said he was quitting
school. That he’d stop with the Master’s and enter the
business world. We said it was a bad idea, sacrificing his
dreams. William and I were able to help them out. We’ve
been fortunate and blessed. But Charles is stubborn. He
wanted to care for his own family, he said. . . .
They returned to Midfield. . . . He said he was happy,
but I knew better. You’ll never be happy, settling for
less than your best. . . .
I wasn’t that surprised, the day he told us about
their separation. Marriage is hard. William and I, we’ve
had our share of troubles. Years ago, for the most part.
We’re a stronger couple because of it. Plus, we’re a far
better match than they were, and we both knew the value of
compromise.
. . . the final obstacle, in my opinion -- the
ultimate reason they couldn’t work through their
differences. So they settled on a divorce, at such a young
age, and with a young child to consider.
M.F. – (Notes his surprise, the way she seems to frown on
the divorce, when she wasn’t that keen on the marriage.)
266
P.K. –
That’s right. I was not happy with their
decision. Which surprised a few of my friends, who all
seemed to think that divorce was the best option. Better
now than later, they said. Both of them with the chance to
be happy, paired with somebody else. But that’s not what
the Lord intended. What God has joined. . . . It’s a
mistake, mind you -- thinking that you have this God-given
right to be happy. . . . That God wants you to be happy. .
. . That’s a misquotation of the Constitution. Not to
mention, it’s bad theology. . . .
It was her fault, sleeping around. Not the initial
divorce -- let me be clear on that. Charles and Laura
shared blame for that selfish decision. Their ridiculous
belief that love and infatuation can sustain a marriage. .
. . No, it was her fault they failed to reconcile -sleeping around like a two-bit whore, when Charles was
making his overtures. Getting herself knocked up, and
breaking my only son’s heart.
267
The Sad Demise of Mr. Pete
The first time Dave heard of bipolar disorder, he instantly thought about Mr. Pete.
How he could switch from generous to vengeful to apathetic, all in a single afternoon.
How he worked for a year, transforming their mother into a bombshell, then tried equally
hard to ruin the achievement. After building the life he had always wanted, he devoted a
spring to its methodical destruction.
The rampage was more than domestic. He accused his long-time boss of financial
deceit — even reporting him to a county agent, a ridiculous claim that cost Pete his job
and almost landed him a jail sentence. They sold Mom‘s car to make ends meet, and he
drove her back and forth to work. At church, in a colorful rant that left several jaws
unhinged, he broke into the sermon and declared that the congregation had grown
lukewarm. Christ would vomit them all from His holy mouth. He forced a showdown,
demanding the pastor‘s resignation, and became a pariah to the flock.
The violence peaked at home, where he chastised his wife for a haughty,
unsubmissive spirit. He blamed the character of her children — ―a crybaby and a
bastard‖ — on a long chain of inherited, generational sin.
David never forgot that last argument. The accusations so intense, he actually
flung himself at Mr. Pete, who absorbed the charge and tossed his stepson into the couch.
Too gentle for criminal charges, but rough enough that David could taste blood. The next
day, Mom packed their bags. She called Aunt Linda and told her to bring the truck.
268
The week that followed was full of adventure. They stayed home from school,
shuttled from one relative to the next — never the same house on consecutive nights.
The precautions seemed prudent, given Pete‘s bluster, but they were probably an
overreaction. Mom had resisted the psychological barrage for more than a year, but she
finally succumbed to a breakdown. The way that a teacher holds illness at bay for an
entire semester, then comes down with the flu over Christmas break. She was seldom
present that week, preoccupied with phone calls and appointments — meetings with
lawyers, talks with connections in Midfield, and arguments with Mr. Pete. He must have
been fierce, his remarks harsh and menacing. Mom took them serious enough, at least.
Dad arrived in the early evening, driving an unfamiliar station wagon. Two
broad-shouldered uncles slid into the car. Mom urged them to hurry. They could only
count on a two-hour window, even less if the house was being watched.
The men were gone ninety minutes. David and Rachel waited in the parlor: their
shoes velcroed, their coats in their laps. Mom picked at a hole in the cushion. An older
man — Grandpa‘s cousin — sat in a rocker on the porch, a hunting rifle across his lap.
They watched his silhouette through the lace curtains, like a grainy movie without any
sound. When headlights appeared at the edge of the property, he stood and walked to the
front steps. For years, when Dave heard of a person confronting danger, he thought of
that moment — that solemn move and the cool, collected resolve. A man standing his
ground, facing the gravel drive.
The lights belonged to the wagon, now stuffed with their clothes and toys and a
few kitchen goods. David and Rachel were bustled into their seats. Mom was crying,
269
apologizing to their aunt, sorry about all the trouble she‘d brought. They‘d be fine, an
uncle insisted. He told Dave‘s father to avoid speeding, at least until Lancaster. Peter
had friends in the sheriff‘s department.
That night, on the drive to Midfield, David fell asleep as his mother softly wept.
He stirred, somewhere north of Columbus, and asked to use the bathroom. At the rest
area, his father surveyed the deserted grounds — the eerie glow from the vending
machines, the dark picnic shelter, a lone tractor-trailer in the back lot — then escorted
him to the facility. Back on the road, the adults resumed a quiet conversation, so
different — Dave later reflected — than their laughter a decade earlier, on happier drives
between Athens and Midfield. The next thing he knew, Dad was lifting Rachel out of the
station wagon. He followed them into a foreign house, and Dad left for his own
apartment. For the next five years, the three of them would call the duplex home.
She lost most of her possessions. The furniture, including an old pie chest — an
heirloom from Grandmother Kingman, one that she always meant to return. Her best
dishes — once again, wedding gifts from her first marriage. Charles had followed her
packing instructions, focusing on the children‘s bedrooms. Her own things were left
behind.
Pete kept them — sold them, most likely — except for a box that he dropped at
her feet: months later, when they met for the final hearing. ―Shit that even the Thrift
Store won‘t take,‖ he explained. Still, Mom was grateful for the photo albums and
random keepsakes, the closest she‘d ever get to an apology.
270
She might have pressed her case and sued, fought for a more equitable split. But
she chose not to struggle with Pete in court. His connections were like vines, woven
throughout the county. Who knows? Perhaps they even touched the justice system. She
might have been trying to calm his temper: worried about her relatives, only a township
away, who had risked their peace to stand by her side. Perhaps she had other, more secret
reasons for letting the bastard walk free. She asked for his signature, nothing more.
Laura shook off the dust of southeast Ohio. Like her father, she set her back to
Hocking County and turned her face to the road ahead.
271
Foreign Men: Reprise
No, the men at Midfield Bible Fellowship knew little about Laurel Walker. She
had entered their lives in 1982: the mother of a two-year old son, her divorce from
Charles Kingman all but final. She immersed herself in the life of the church, then —
three years later — vanished without an explanation, rumors of pregnancy in her wake.
She reappeared on a Sunday morning in 1989. The curly hair was new, but her
confident stride was unforgettable. Without one word of explanation, she stepped to her
favorite seat on the far left aisle. As if seven years had been seven days — the old week
finished, the morning of worship returned. She was followed by David, the son they
vaguely remembered, and Rachel, the daughter they‘d never met. Wives greeted her with
suspicion, the husbands with formality. She resumed her former roles, singing in the
choir and — once their mistrust had faded, replaced by a biting sympathy — teaching
their children in Sunday School.
The minister‘s welcome was unreserved. Pastor Mitchell would come to their
duplex for Sunday dinner, the only person who spoke with their mother about the past:
―the Old Testament,‖ he called it, their years ―in the wilderness.‖ Most of his stories
were happy. Still, they were limned with a shadow of regret, a countercurrent within the
laughter. He never came unless David or Rachel was present. He never asked Laura
where she‘d been.
272
Rachel was distant with Pastor Mitchell, but David liked him. They both rooted
for the Browns and cheered against Michigan. They both read fantasy novels, and Pastor
Mitchell bought David a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. David idolized Strider, but
Pastor‘s favorite was Samwise Gamgee. ―Seeds, not swords,‖ he explained.
David held firm. He preferred battlefields to gardens.
―You won‘t convince him, Greg,‖ his mother said. ―He‘s a Kingman.‖
―I’m not a Kingman,‖ declared Rachel. ―I‘m a Walker.‖
―That‘s right,‖ Pastor said. He smiled, hoping to make a connection. But Rachel
was already back on the defensive. ―You certainly are.‖
No, he never knew where she met them — the random men like Mr. Pitts who
seasoned those years in Midfield. Who invited them to Pittsburgh, to Sandusky, to
Lansing.
The internet hadn‘t arrived, bringing Faithbook and ChristianCupid and the search
engines of the ―believers-only‖ dating services. Those algorithms that usurp the guidance
of the Holy Spirit, refining the hunt for a suitable mate. Enter the right variables,
translating your likes and dislikes into binary code, and a model spouse will emerge: the
ideal blend of physical beauty, personal charm, and sound theological doctrine.
No more awkward nights at the singles ministry. No more weekend retreats in the
West Virginia mountains, skiing in the afternoon and listening to fireside chats about
―Christ, your True Soulmate.‖ No more praying that your Discussion Group will contain
an eligible partner — that sharing your Spiritual JourneysTM can pave the way to dinner
and a movie.
273
Fossil Evidence
SWF, 31. Loves hiking, Disney movies, and signing for the deaf ministry at her
church. Searching for a Joshua or a Caleb — a man willing to claim the
Promised Land, to declare ―as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord‖
(Joshua 1:6). Must be physically and spiritually fit, eager to laugh and love, and
dedicated to an evangelical worldview. Pentecostals welcome (the family of
God contains many branches). No fundamentalists.
How far do you refine the search? Do you bust out a contract on the second date,
notarizing her faith in the Pre-Tribulation Rapture? What if his interpretation shifts? If
she changes her mind?
Pop quiz. Which come first? The Beast with Seven Heads, or The Millennial
Reign? The Great White Throne Judgment, or The Judgment Seat of Christ? The Battle
of Armageddon, or The Marriage Feast of the Lamb? If he answers wrong, does he miss
the cut?
In the nuptials, do you account for eschatology? Voiding the union if a spouse
admits doubt? What if the love of your life proves flawed, at least in her End of
Timeline?
Don‘t neglect the opposite pole. The grand finale to the Holy Scriptures is a
doctrinal minefield, but the preamble brings quandaries of its own. Do you insist on
seven literal days, twenty-four hours each? If she‘s attractive enough, would you accept
274
a poetic reading — a divine process that stretched for millennia? Evolution as an epic
symphony: the masterpiece of the Creator, not a cheap bit of sideshow magic.
Is there a gap between the initial verses? One account? Or two?
What about family vacations? Do you stick to the party line, the Creation
Museum and right-wing zoos: animals with monogamous, heterosexual behavior and
modest genitalia?
Do you visit the Smithsonian? Can you admire those skeletons in the Museum of
Natural History? Do the horns of the Triceratops prick your conscience?
You‘re happiest in the center of the book: the Shepherd and the Sheep, the Sower
and the Seed, the Vine and Branches. Pleasant metaphors, clear dualities.
You love the thought of a mountaintop sermon: picnic blankets and Jesus and
Vanilla Wafers, puffy clouds in the bluest sky. The colors go well with that azure sash
and his spotless robe — never mind where Mary found the bleach. You try not to think
of Christ‘s greasy hair. You refuse to imagine the smell: in an age without showers,
handling fish and sawing boards beneath Galilee‘s sun, even the Lord gets a bit rank.
The Beatitudes give you goosebumps: all those lovely blesseds. Yes, yes, we
agree. Seek the kingdom first, the pearl of great price. Consider the birds of the air.
We hear something about poor, but the sun is warm and our bellies stuffed. By
the time He starts rambling about persecution, we‘ve long been fast asleep.
275
What‘s that? You‘ll agree to disagree? That‘s fine and well when you‘re all
lovey-dovey, caught in the romance of the moment. Go ahead: sidestep those tedious
arguments about carbon dating.
But once you have a family, and young Cody brings that plastic Stegosaurus to
the breakfast table, asking how dinosaurs fit in the Ark. . . . I mean, don‘t take it for
granted he‘ll swallow that bunk about baby reptiles and eggs, as if Noah was also a
master thief — sneaking into a T-Rex nest, lucky enough to grab one of each gender.
I‘m not trying to be difficult, I promise.
I‘m just saying — don‘t pretend I didn‘t warn you.
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Timelines
1. Four Millennia of the Old Testament
• Creation (4100 BC)
• The Flood (2300)
• Abraham (2160)
• Joseph sold into slavery (1900)
• Exodus from Egypt (1446)
• Battle of Jericho (1406)
• King Saul (1050-1010)
• King David (1010-970)
• King Solomon (970-930)
• Conquest by Assyria: Israel (721)
• Babylonian Captivity: Judah (605)
• Christ (4 BC)
4000
3500
3000
2500
2000
1500
1000
500
0
2. Twenty-Eight Years of Dave Kingman‘s Life
• Birth (1982)
• 1st Move to Midfield (1982)
• Divorce of Laura & Charles Kingman, Parents (1984)
• To Tennessee (1987)
• Birth of Rachel Walker, Half-sister (1987)
• To Hocking County (1988)
• Marriage of Laura Walker & Peter Coates (1991)
• 2nd Move to Midfield (1993)
• Divorce of Laura Walker & Peter Coates (1993)
—————— Student at MCA (1993-2000)
• Mother & Sister return to Tennessee (1999)
• Graduation from MCA (2000)
————— Fischer College (2000-2005)
Math teacher, MCA—
1982
1985
1990
1995
2000
2005
2010
277
3. The End Times, According to Mr. Pete
• Judgment Seat of Christ
• Wedding Feast of the Lamb
Heaven
Christ‘s Return I
• Great White Throne
Judgment
Christ‘s Return II
Rapture of the Church
Earth
The Great Tribulation
Christ‘s Millennial Reign
• Destruction of Earth
• Creation of New Earth
– 3 ½ years –
——— 7 years———— ——— 1000 years ——
• War of Gog & Magog
• Rise of the Anti-Christ
• The Abomination of Desolation
→Trumpet, Seal, & Bowl Judgments
• The Two Witnesses
• The Battle of Armageddon
• Satan Bound
• Satan Released
• The Final Battle
Present
Eternity
4. The Life of Laura Walker
Midfield, Ohio
Hocking County, Ohio
Maryville, Tennessee
1960
1970
1980
1990
2000
278
―So Pre-Trib, I won’t eat Post-Toasties‖
I
A lot of folks were ―Post-Toasties,‖ according to Mr. Pete: nonbelievers,
Communists, Mormons, the French, Democrats, hippies, Catholics, and every Californian
but Ronald Reagan. At the Rapture, the faithful would be snatched to heaven . . . ―in a
moment, the twinkling of an eye.‖ Anyone left behind would face the Tribulation. In
short, they‘d be toast. Burnt toast.
II
―Are you a Pre-Trib or a Post-Toasty?‖ The trail beside the Lynn Camp Prong
was narrow. David followed his Grandpa upstream, a vein to the heart of the Smokies
―Speak English, son. But not too well — you‘re in America.‖
―Are you Pre-Trib or Post-Toasty?‖
―Remind me: which side is Luke Skywalker?‖
―I‘m not talking about Star Wars.‖ Grandpa was kidding, but David played
along. ―I‘m talking about the Bible.‖
―Remind me: how do you tell the difference, over at Mr. Pete‘s church?‖
279
III
The Walkers followed their daughter‘s request and did not attend her second
wedding. She‘d had her big day, back when she married Charles. She didn‘t need
another celebration.
A few months after the ceremony, they traveled from Tennessee to see their
grandchildren and pay their respects. It was Grandpa‘s first trip to Hocking County since
his mother‘s funeral. Mr. Pete kept his distance, and Mom acted strange the entire week.
She treated her parents with cool reserve, like they were company rather than family.
The entire visit, David caught hints of an ongoing fight — an argument that would
smolder in his presence, then flare to life once he left the room.
Grandpa was already melancholy. The Walkers had flourished in his absence,
multiplied by two generations, their roots fixed deep in the Buckeye soil. His own line
was modest by comparison. He had chosen the route of exile and planted himself in
Tennessee. Over four decades had passed, he informed his grandson. He hadn‘t lived in
the north since February of 1943, the month he answered his draft notice.
He relaxed on the twisted, backcountry roads of Hocking County. Stories began
to emerge: the night they snuck past a Park Ranger‘s nose, daring his cousin to spend a
night in Old Man‘s Cave. Hidden among the boulders near the alcove, Grandpa practiced
his catamount screams.
―Catamount screams?‖
―Mountain Lion. Eastern Cougar. Panther — Painter, if you talk like your
Grandma.‖ Grandpa shook his head. ―Same animal, different names. Screams like a
woman being murdered. What do they teach you in schools these days?‖
280
David shrugged. ―Last week, we talked about adjectives and Benjamin Franklin.‖
The combination earned a grunt. ―Adjectives are good. Nouns are better.
Names. They ought to take an entire year, just teach you the names of things.‖
David said nothing. A year like that sounded boring, like the chapters in the Bible
with the genealogies, the verses that listed begats.
―Old Ben would approve. That‘s how he spent his life, you know: making up
nouns. Fire Department. Library. Electricity. Nouns that Americans could use.‖
They had pulled onto a one-lane track that cut across a field to a small parking lot.
At a picnic table, a family was eating lunch. A sign with a map marked the start of a
path. ―Conkle‘s Hollow.‖ Grandpa pointed to the trail, which crossed a creek on a
wooden bridge and disappeared into the forest. ―You can‘t see it from here, but a canyon
opens between those hills. Steep walls, almost two hundred feet high, and a secret tier —
halfway up the side — that humans seldom visit. You stand on the rim, looking down on
that valley, and you know what God meant, when he said that His world was very good.‖
David tried to imagine a view like that. ―The word good can be an adjective.‖
―That‘s right. So can smart. As in, you‘re too smart for your own good. But
that‘s the way adjectives work. God worked an entire week, creating nothing but nouns.
He‘d earned the right to use an adjective.‖
David played with the lock, tired of sitting in the car. He wanted to explore the
hollow. But Grandpa didn‘t move. His hands were draped on the steering wheel, the
engine of the car vibrating through the floorboards. ―One trail follows the ledge, another
the stream — right down the middle of the valley. It starts normal enough, the woods
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you‘d expect in Ohio, but the canyon walls begin to tighten. The forest gets thick and
primeval, like you‘ll turn a corner and spot a dinosaur at any moment. The canopy opens
for this small pool with rock walls and a waterfall that drops from the hidden level.‖
Grandpa let out his breath and clucked his tongue. ―Some places in this world . . . they
are so beautiful, my boy — your bones cry out for mercy, just thinking of them.‖
David could almost picture the secret fall. Almost. The way that he almost saw
Aslan, even though he was only reading. He would step beneath the icy shower, and it
would be just like Lucy, climbing into that wardrobe and walking on Narnia‘s snow.
Grandpa put the car in reverse. ―Sorry, David. I don‘t think I‘m ready.‖ The
Cantwell Cliffs were also impressive, he said. Especially where the trail cut between
boulders, so you had to inch sideways or risk getting stuck. Still, David was
disappointed. The cliffs sounded fun, but the world had lots of fun places to hike. The
magical spots had grown harder and harder to find.
The county was altered. Grandpa noted the changes as they drove: Ted
Erickson‘s barn was now a store, LuAnn‘s Candles & Crafts; the Sheffey pasture had
become an RV campground; and rental cabins lined Tucker Creek, down in the glen
where he shot his first rabbit. Even so, the changes were less than he feared. Next to
nothing, compared to the growth around Townsend and Pigeon Forge, the borders of the
Smokies. For the most part, the land by the Hockhocking River seemed pretty much the
same.
But Grandpa was different, thought David. In Tennessee, drives like this turned
him into a chatterbox. Each valley would trigger a legend from the past: Native
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American scouts, loggers with fists that could whip Paul Bunyan, and moonshine runners
who memorized their shortcuts and sped down the moonlit roads without lights, praying
to whiskey gods that no bear or hogs had taken a similar path. Sometimes, the anecdote
stemmed from his time as a cub reporter. His interview with a woman who lived her
entire life in the notch between Curry He and Curry She Mountains: seventy-six years in
the Smokies, all within a mile of Meigs Creek. On the gravel road past Tremont, every
turn brought a new tall tale. Like crossing a field in the summer, when the grasshoppers
burst from the weeds. Except the insects were stories, and they smacked you in the face
with every step.
Not in Ohio. Grandpa told a few yarns, sketched a memory or two about Hocking
County into words. But most of his thoughts seemed to burrow deeper, rather than rise to
the surface.
Now and then, one of them worked its way to his lips. They had parked in a
gravel lot off US 33. The site looked forgotten, far less developed than Cedar Falls or
Lake Logan. Which pleased Grandpa. He was all for visitor centers and guardrails and
ice cream, but a few places, they needed to stay overlooked.
For the first mile, the trail was anything but promising. Some ranger must have
driven his mower across a pasture, then called it a path. Then, without warning, it arced
into the forest, made a few turns, and they walked — before David knew what had
happened — out onto the arch of a natural bridge. The ravine it spanned was narrow and
lined with mud. A seasonal creek, Grandpa said. The drop wasn‘t far: twenty feet,
maybe less. Still, their perch was no wider than David was tall. It terrified him — this
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way you could be striding along the surface of the planet, only to lose the ground on
either side.
David was cautious, but Grandpa sat on the edge of the arch. Don‘t worry, he
said. If your momma scolds you about dirty britches, I‘ll take the fall. But he
misunderstood. A more literal drop was on David‘s mind.
They shared an apple. Grandpa relaxed. Touching the rock seemed to draw the
stories out. ―Once, back in high school, I came to this arch with a girl that I loved.‖
―A girl that you loved?‖
―That‘s right. I stole a kiss, not far from this very spot. Less than two yards from
where you‘re sitting — two yards and five decades.‖
―I thought you loved Grandma.‖
The old man seemed taken aback, as if he‘d forgotten — just for a second — that
he‘d been married for almost forty years. Then he recovered. ―Of course I love your
Grandma. Since the very first time I spotted her on that Maryville street.‖ He set a hand
on his grandson‘s thigh. His knuckles were like knots in a branch. ―David, my boy. Let
me tell you something. You‘ll love a lot of things in your life — places, songs, food.
You‘ll probably love a lot of women. Sometimes, you‘ll even be fool enough to love two
at once.‖ David raised his eyebrows. ―I‘m serious. You don‘t believe me, but you will.
Now, if you‘re lucky, you‘ll be half as wise as you‘re foolish, and you‘ll spot the love
that‘s meant to stick.‖
They stopped at a relative‘s farm. Grandpa strolled the property with a cousin, an
old hunting partner from his youth, and David played with family members his own age.
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After the visit, Grandpa revealed his disappointment. Their conversation had centered on
loss — loved ones who had passed, the years that would never return. ―Everything
changes,‖ he said. ―Their world hasn‘t stopped, just because I wandered south.‖ You
can‘t go home again, he claimed, not when the people who made it home have
disappeared. He shouldn‘t have returned: down in Tennessee, he‘d forgotten how much
he missed.
You wouldn‘t have fallen in love with Grandma, said David. ―Not if you never
went to Tennessee.‖
That‘s true, admitted Grandpa. ―And I might have missed the Smokies. In the
end, I cut a good bargain: I gained more than I lost.‖ They listed a few of their favorite
hikes: the Little River Trail and the loop through Cucumber Gap, past those deserted
cabins from the 1920s, back when Elkmont was a popular resort; Cades Cove, where they
walked across the fields and looked for deer in the copses; the Middle Prong, the trail that
seemed to last forever — in fact, David still hadn‘t seen the end, a string of hidden
waterfalls that were buried in rhododendron thickets.
―Maybe this summer,‖ said Grandpa, ―now that your legs have grown. But all
those trails are valleys. Haven‘t we gone to any peaks?‖
The Chimneys, said David. Though it was a short hike, only two miles, the
second half was steep — almost like climbing stairs. The most dangerous walk in the
park, according to Grandpa. Not just the rock scrambling and the cliffs at the top.
Tourists from Gatlinburg packed the trail, drawn to its brief length and the promise of
commanding views. Their bodies weren‘t ready for the slope; their hearts couldn‘t
handle the strain.
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Only the Chimneys? asked Grandpa. They‘d need to rectify that situation.
―Come summer, we‘ll hit Charlie‘s Bunion or Siler‘s Bald. The trailheads are high —
fifty-five hundred feet or more — so the car tackles most of the climb. I‘ll teach you to
walk a ridgeline: how not to trip, when you‘re gawking at that view. After that, we‘ll try
something big — Thunderhead or Gregory Bald, maybe even Le Conte. We‘ll follow the
Cyclone into North Carolina, and I‘ll take you to Shuckstack or Stratton Bald.‖
IV
That Sunday, Grandpa and Grandma joined them at Hayden Valley Tabernacle.
Grandpa had talked about going to Cantwell Creek, to see what faces he recognized. As
the week had progressed, he grew more and more relaxed, tracing the paths of his youth.
The countryside was a long-lost friend. They just needed some time to get reacquainted.
But Pete was insistent: Grandpa ought to attend Hayden Valley. He mentioned it
several times, how they‘d preserved the traditional religion of the country — the true
remnant, faithful to the last, whereas most of the area churches had fallen away. He
wanted to see if Grandpa agreed. Not — David guessed — to assess the health of the
church, but to measure his father-in-law‘s true character.
Grandpa‘s standards for churches were high. Not rigid — he had friends in many
denominations — but potent. If you committed yourself to a creed, he said, the evidence
of your life had to prove its worth. Thus he seldom attended services himself. Not
because he frowned on the pastor or the congregation, but from shame: he fell short of his
own expectations.
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That Sunday, the sermon came from the book of Daniel. Pastor Harrison
connected its prophecies to the trumpet judgments in Revelation, a topic that suited Mr.
Pete. In fact, he exclaimed at dinner, it was probably the best teaching that he‘d heard all
year.
Grandpa listened in silence, less enthusiastic than his son-in-law. Still, in Pete‘s
eyes, the civil reaction was tacit approval.
The next day, after Pete left for work, Grandpa revealed his true opinion. ―If
you‘re gonna preach from a book about Daniel, why not talk about Daniel?‖
―What did you expect?‖ Mom asked. ―The Den of Lions?‖
―Why not? What about that crazy trio — Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego?‖
―We already know those stories.‖ Mom‘s answer surprised David. She often
asked similar questions of Mr. Pete. ―He‘s telling us something we haven‘t learned.‖
―I haven‘t learned the other stories. I know them, but I don‘t live by them. Trust
me: I‘d chicken out if I had to face a fiery furnace.‖ Better to remind him of something
important, he argued — something that he‘d forgotten — rather than playing darts with
Scripture, throwing verses at current events and hoping they stuck. ―The End Times?
I‘ve got enough trouble, watching my steps in the Present Tense.‖
―That‘s just your preference,‖ Mom said. ―You‘re not used to the style.‖
―Are you?‖
She matched his gaze with her own hard look. ―I‘m getting there. Besides, it‘s
the only church Pete will attend.‖
―Says more about Pete than his church, don‘t you think?‖
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―Pete‘s not your concern.‖
―I‘m not concerned about Pete.‖ Rachel had wandered into the kitchen and
climbed onto Grandpa‘s lap. She bounced on his knee. ―I‘m concerned about my
grandchildren. I‘m worried about you.‖
Dartboard Prophecy
According to Grandpa, true prophets never played darts. They lived in the
wilderness, not TV studios. Not like those ―Infomercial Preachers,‖ who ripped
Scripture out of context: spitting references, flashing headlines, and trusting in
volume — both the number of claims and how loud they shouted. They
overwhelmed their more thoughtful critics.
―No one cares how often you miss, so long as you hit with a few blind
stabs. But that‘s like playing the lottery — you make a sacrifice each day, hoping
you‘ll hit the jackpot. In the end, you lose more than you gain.‖ The worst
thing? It didn‘t hurt the fool tossing predictions, only those gullible enough to
listen. Some of these ―prophets‖ — he made quote marks with his fingers — they
didn‘t even bother to aim. They threw at the crowd, not the board. ―They don‘t
hit the mark, but they sure put out plenty of eyes.
―Let me tell you something,‖ he said. ―Remember the Puritans? The
Pilgrims? They were convinced — looking at scripture and current events —
they were certain they lived in the last days. Same with Christians in the next
century, and the century after that. They all thought the end of the world was
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imminent, citing the same verses and evidence that you hear today. Better
evidence, in some cases.‖
David thought of a book that Mr. Pete owned. It explained the last days,
how the Soviet Union and liberal European nations would attack Israel with a
dramatic pincer movement. How the Euphrates River would dry, allowing the
Chinese armies to march from the East. It illustrated the future campaigns with
detailed maps: invasion routes and battle plans that drew closer each day.
―Right now,‖ said Grandpa, ―we‘re all stuck on the Soviet Union,
convinced that Gorbachev is the Anti-Christ. But listen to me: sixty years from
now, you‘ll be talking with your own grandson. You‘ll be watching TV —
whatever it is that replaces TV — and seeing them rip down the Berlin Wall. The
whole Communist system will collapse, the way all empires collapse in time:
China first, because they‘re too smart to tolerate all that nonsense. Then Korea,
Eastern Europe, Cuba, and finally Russia itself. And the talking heads will need
to adjust their schemes.
―They‘ll claim they knew it all along. They‘ll find a new scapegoat, some
Democrat in high office — our first woman president, most likely. She‘ll sign a
peace treaty with Iran, and they‘ll call her the whore of Babylon. The
Abomination of Desolation is drawing nigh.‖
They ought to return to the Old Testament standards, he said — at least
when it came to prophecy. ―One miss, and you‘re stoned.‖ The stations would
close overnight, freeing the airwaves for something practical. Back in the day, if
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he‘d reported the news with the same accuracy as these ―late-night jabberwonkies,‖ his editor would have kicked him to the curb.
Even Christ didn‘t know all the details. ―Only the Father knows the exact
time and date. Let me tell you something: if Christ didn‘t know, these fools on
TV, they don‘t know either.‖
V
―Pre-Trib or Post-Toasty?‖ repeated Grandpa. They had stopped to watch a
fisherman. He stood in the center of the stream, working a pool at the base of a rapid.
―Where‘d you learn language like that?‖
―Sunday School.‖
Grandpa snorted. Possibly at the comment. More likely, at the fisherman‘s
tentative cast.
―If you‘re Pre-Trib, the Rapture comes before the Tribulation.‖
―Does it now? The Christians depart so the heathen can toast?‖ He didn‘t let
David answer. ―Don‘t listen to me: I‘m just giving you a hard time.‖
They resumed their walk, following the unofficial trail. David was skeptical of
the path, suspicious of unmarked routes: anything not on the NPS map.
Grandpa claimed it was fine. The best hikes weren‘t always anthologized. He
pointed to his grandson‘s guidebook. ―You don‘t need to carry a permission slip.‖
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David didn‘t know what that meant. But their trek felt dishonest, even a touch
reckless. They had crossed the boulder-filled stream on a steel girder: a beam without a
rail, less than a yard wide. Almost a story above the water.
They broke for lunch at the halfway point, another rapid and pool combination.
Better for trout than the earlier hole, Grandpa claimed.
―Why didn‘t you tell him?‖
―Tell who?‖
―The man in the creek.‖ David was not in a pleasant mood, learning they‘d have
to retrace their steps. He wanted the trail to loop, like Cucumber Gap, not go out & back
again. It was the surprise that irked him most, another pitfall of hiking off-map.
―Some things, you have to figure out for yourself,‖ Grandpa said. They finished
their ham sandwiches and traded a thermos of tea. ―See that stream. A lot of folks claim
these mountains never change — the single constant in their fast-paced lives. But that‘s
sentiment. Sentiment about sediment. They don‘t want to pay attention; they see the
mountains they want to see.
―I‘ve been hiking this trail for forty years,‖ Grandpa said, ―long before your
mother was born.‖ David raised his eyebrows. ―That‘s right — we had creeks back then.
I‘ll tell you something, it‘s never the same river. Forget the obvious: the extra water after
the snowmelt, the bare rocks in the autumn drought. I‘m not talking fallen timber or
stones that shift during springtime floods. Look at that rapid.‖ Beneath the short drop,
only a yard high, the water was churning with foam. ―That fall looks the same as the first
time I ever saw it.‖
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―But—‖
―But it‘s not — that‘s my point. The flotsam caught in that hydraulic? The
branches and shards of wood, the insects attracting the brookies? That debris looks
trapped, but it‘s constantly renewed. Even the water has changed. Right now, about a
mile upstream, on the slopes of Defeat Ridge, the current is gathering speed. You‘ll
watch it arrive in half an hour. That shale? Each year, it erodes a few millimeters —
even more if there‘s been a major flood. In a few months, the underbrush will be
different. Anyone knows that. But the trees, even the trees will have grown.‖
―Except for the pines.‖
―The pines?‖ Grandpa was confused, a man wrenched from his pleasant dream.
―Because of the beetles.‖ Earlier in the hike, Grandpa had described how the pine
trees were dying throughout the park — an insect invasion that couldn‘t be stopped.
―That‘s right. The trees killed by beetles wouldn‘t be growing.‖ He found his
bearings and touched his grandson‘s back. ―You know what you are?‖
―Too smart for my own good?‖
―Exactly.‖ Grandpa stood to his feet. He bent over and tried to touch his toes,
then looked at the creek and sighed. ―When I‘m gone, return me to these hills.‖
―Sir?‖
―My ashes. Scatter them someplace good — along this valley, the backside of
Sugarland, the cascades on Twentymile Creek.‖ He grinned. ―Somewhere off-trail and
out-of-bounds. Somewhere I‘m not supposed to be.‖
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VI
Hiking downstream, they moved faster than before. ―It‘s like life,‖ observed
Grandpa. ―Once you‘re over the hill, everything passes too quickly. Before you know it,
you‘re back at the trailhead.‖
They crossed the girder a second time. ―I guess that‘s my answer. I‘m not really
worried about the end of the world, my boy — not with my own finish line so near.‖
At Grandpa‘s truck, they had Cokes from the cooler and split a Twix. ―The world
changes, David. But it also endures. The Creator knows what He‘s doing. So I guess
you could say I‘m a Pan-Tribulationist. . . .‖ After a pause, a punch line clarified his
statement. ―All things will pan out in the end.‖
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Grandpa Speaks of Pittsburgh: Take II
―Son.‖
―Grandson.‖
―Son, have you ever been to Pittsburgh?‖
David shook his head.
―Probably for the best,‖ Grandpa said. ―It‘s the city God dropped.‖
―The city God dropped?‖
―Whole town, utilities and all. Slipped out of His hands and crash-landed in
Pennsylvania.‖
―Slipped out of His hands.‖ The idea bothered David, though the story wasn‘t
true.
Truth has nothing to do with it, Grandpa said. A good yarn slides across the face
of reality, like butter on a hot griddle.
Still, the image disturbed him. It challenged his favorite verses, John 10:27-29, a
passage he‘d learned in E†B Clubs. The sheep in the Father‘s hands, and the strength of
His mighty grasp.
He attended the clubs with his cousins at Cantwell Creek Baptist. Like Boy
Scouts and Girl Scouts, you earned badges to wear on a uniform — learning verses
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instead of knots; bringing visitors to church, not selling cookies. They met Wednesday
nights in the Fellowship Hall, where each team earned points throughout the evening:
competing in races and events during Game Time; reciting their scripture verses during
Group Time; and responding to questions about the message in Gospel Time. The
winners earned candy and bragging rights for a week.
David loved E†B. The night was filled with activity, and everything you did was
translated into math: Balloon Basketball, memorizing the books of the Bible, the Root
Beer Relay, even the verses you found during Sword Drills. As a third-grade boy, David
belonged to the Braves. Their handbook design featured arrows and teepees.
Hayden Valley was too small to sustain a club. They had child care for kids five
and under. After that, said the elders, the children should learn to attend the adult service.
Which seemed ridiculous to Mom. Sitting through sermons was counterproductive, she
argued. It trained a child that church was boring. Dave couldn‘t recall Pete‘s answer,
only its lack of sense. They compromised: Hayden Valley for David on Sunday
mornings, Cantwell Creek and E†B on Wednesday nights.
E†B: A Brief History
E†B was founded by Chuck Noland in Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1958.
Patterned after the Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, it was designed to provide an
enjoyable & edifying Christian alternative to secular institutions for young men
and women (Grades 3-6). The acronym E.T.B. stands for Example to the
Believers (the letter T was replaced by a graphic resembling a cross during a late70s marketing update). It was inspired by I Timothy 4:12, in which Paul
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challenges his young apprentice: ―Let no man despise thy youth: but be thou an
example of the believers, in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in
purity.‖
Noland divided his two-hour program into thirds, each segment focused
on two of the six qualities that Paul mentions. In Group Time, the participants
gather in groups of 7-10 children, an adult leader, and an assistant (often a high
school student). They emphasize Word and Conversation, reciting their memory
verses and completing detailed worksheets based on the weekly Bible lessons.*
Game Time emphasizes Charity and Spirit through teamwork and sportsmanship,
and Gospel Time uses songs and teaching to inspire the youth toward Faith and
Purity.
Noland passed away in 1972, but not before seeing his creation take root
in a number of churches throughout southern Ohio. Today, though not as
widespread as more popular programs such as Royal Ambassadors and AWANA
clubs, E†B materials are present in churches and schools across twenty-four states
and seven countries.
*
During the initial years of the club, Noland created these worksheets on a
weekly basis — mining his personal quiet time as a source. As time passed, he
revised these materials and grouped them into four primary workbooks: Patriarchs
& Prophets; Songs & Wisdom; the Gospels; and the Epistles. The club director
would select one of these themes and emphasize it for the school year. Thus, by
rotating the topics, a four-year participant could devote a year of study to each of
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these subjects. Today, E†B offers nineteen distinct workbook themes (more
specialized and focused than Noland‘s original topics). Most of the newest
additions have extensive online content for clubbers to access. In fact, this
material has grown so popular that parents who homeschool their children will
often adopt E†B resources for their Bible curriculum.
— Summarized from the E†B website.
Rachel was fascinated with E†B. When David came to the dinner table in his
uniform, she quizzed him about the Ohio Games and the National Quiz, the competitions
with groups from other churches. She knew what the acronym meant — ―Example to the
Believers‖ — but not the verses in Timothy that inspired the slogan. She asked him to
recite the E†B Pledge, joining him for the battle cry at the conclusion, shouting ―Word —
Faith — Deed‖ at the top of her lungs.
Her favorite were Sword Drills. In these contests, you held your Bible aloft, high
in the air, and grasped your sword by its spine. The leader called out a verse, and you
raced to locate the passage, leaping to your feet to read it out loud. Most rounds, the
contest was over in seconds — even for verses among the minor prophets.
The Holy Scriptures & HGH
Cheating annoyed David, especially in Sword Drills. Clubbers who
refused to hold their arms completely straight. Who slipped their thumb between
pages, hoping for an extra millisecond.
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The most disturbing were Bibles with tabs, which marked the location of
every book. They were legal but unsportsmanlike — the evangelical equivalent
of anabolic steroids.
They didn‘t even help, in David‘s opinion. Whether plastic flaps or
indentations, they slowed the owners down — breaking the rhythm as pages flew
under your thumb. They became a crutch. Instead of relying on memory,
confident that Haggai followed Zephaniah, you took the time to read the labels. It
was the difference between two infielders: the beginner who recited the rules of
base running as he trapped a grounder; the professional who threw to the right bag
on instinct.
No, David argued. He could beat posers with tabs any day of the week.
He spun his Bible on a finger, a gunslinger from the Wild West. If Sword drills
were duels, his trigger-finger ruled Hocking County.
―Why can‘t I go to E†B too?‖ asked Rachel.
In a few years, said Mom. ―When you‘re old enough. Right now, you get to
come to Hayden Valley with me.‖
More and more, the arrangement disturbed Mr. Pete. It divided their family and
sent the wrong message — specifically, that he didn‘t have full control. It set a poor
example for the congregation.
According to Mr. Pete, the doctrine at E†B was too inclusive. It was designed to
appeal to multiple churches, not all of them counted among the Redeemed. Not all
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Baptists were baptized, he liked to claim — not in the blood of the Lamb. As for
Nondenominational? Well, the Bible had another word for that nonsense. Lukewarm.
He had noticed bad habits in David: a lack of respect for authority, an insolent
tongue. The sinful traits were especially prominent on Thursday mornings. E†Bs were
too permissive, he argued. They encouraged the clubbers to speak, not listen. ―Train up
a child in the way he should go,‖ he quoted, ―and when he is old, he will not depart from
it.‖
David ignored most of these comments. But one thing — a minor detail — never
failed to irritate him. Mr. Pete called them E†Bs, not E†B clubs. As in: ―What heretical
crap did they teach you at E†Bs this time?‖ But adding an ―s‖ didn‘t make sense.
―It can‘t be plural,‖ Dave told him.
―Who died and made you professor? Doctor Kingman.‖
―E†B is singular.‖
Mr. Pete didn‘t answer.
―There‘s only one,‖ said Mom.
―I know what singular means,‖ snapped Mr. Pete. ―Aren‘t there clubs at different
churches? Sounds plural to me.‖ He spat the word plural, and David felt something land
on his cheek.
He ached to respond — to explain that, even with hundreds of clubs, E†B itself
would always be singular. But he‘d learned his lesson. Once, he‘d corrected his
stepfather‘s tip at a restaurant. Another time, on the drive to Marietta, he warned that
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they‘d run out of gas — calculating their miles per gallon and the amount of fuel left in
the tank. Both times, he‘d been correct. Both times, the following week had been hell.
So David swallowed his frustration. He took the advice that he often received
from Mr. Pete: he kept his trap shut.
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Eternal Security
My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me: and I give unto
them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them
out of my hand. My Father, which gave them me, is greater than all; and no man
is able to pluck them out of my Father's hand.
John 10:27-29
The compulsion arrived in waves: a still, small urge that grew to an irresistible
tow. It was subtle at first. A pang of anxiety, the exact sensation that Dave would feel —
years later — as he locked the front door, then worried about the stove. The remedy was
even similar: a calm review of the basic facts. He had checked the burners and removed
any flammable trash. He accepted Christ to be his Savior in the fourth grade — on
February 6, 1990 — responding to an altar call at the end of E†B.
That night, when he shared the good news, his mother was pleased but surprised.
Hadn‘t he already asked Jesus into his heart, back in Midfield? After church one Sunday
afternoon, in kindergarten or the first grade? Pastor Mitchell had been visiting for lunch,
she was all but certain. He had reviewed the decision with her son, checking that the
young man understood, and led him through the sinner‘s prayer.
David had fragments of an early memory — kneeling in prayer at their brown
couch. But he didn‘t know what he was saying. He had a picture but no sound.
You were baptized, Mom said. Full immersion, dipped backwards and raised
again three times: in the name of the Father . . . the Son . . . and the Holy Ghost. You
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professed your faith to the congregation. ―Your father was there. The next time you visit
Midfield, ask him to show you the pictures.‖
Pictures?
―He took some photos to show your Grandparents.‖
Didn‘t they come?
No, Mom answered, a trace of bitterness in her voice. ―Your Grandmother was
upset with me that weekend. Not that we‘re buddies now.‖
A panel opened in the wall behind the stage, directly beneath the backlit cross.
Pastor Mitchell and the convert would stand in the waist-deep water, looking down on the
congregation. David could see the handrail in his mind, descending along the steps and
beneath the surface. But he roamed that church with impunity. Once, he snuck into the
baptistery with the older boys. They dared each other to touch the water and joked about
throwing him into the pool. They designed elaborate schemes: building a waterslide, or
leaving a school of goldfish in the font.
He could recall all that. But not the baptism itself.
Mom‘s description was convincing. She saw details that he couldn‘t remember.
But that was the problem. The memory belonged to her history — not his — and he
wasn‘t about to risk his eternal future, not on the word of another person. Not even his
mother.
So when the speaker gave the invitation, bidding the clubbers to receive Christ,
he raised his hand. He inched out of the row, stepping on several feet. A cousin shot him
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a curious glance, a skeptical look that his group leader shared as well. They walked to a
quiet room, sitting on folding metal chairs, and reviewed the Four Spiritual Laws. David
confessed his sins and asked Jesus to forgive them. He wrote the date on the inside cover
of his Bible and signed his name. Mr. Thompson signed it as well, adding an inscription:
―Nothing can take you away from the Father, David. He will never let you go. John
10:27-29.‖
In the years that followed, whenever the worry returned, he would picture the
Bible on his bookcase. Sometimes, when the panic grew fierce, he would run his finger
across the indentations from Mr. Thompson‘s pen.
He could sympathize with Thomas, that Obsessive-Compulsive Disciple. He
understood the need to touch Christ‘s wounds.
For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither
the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything
else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in
Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 8:38-39
Sometimes, he nipped the worry in the bud. Other days, it settled deep and
refused to leave. He would stand outside the apartment door — paralyzed — afraid that a
burglar might ransack his personal files. He‘d listen to the sermon with alarm, convinced
he was rocky soil . . . a field choked with weeds. That the sower had come, but salvation
hadn‘t taken root.
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He felt bound for a double curse: identity theft on this earth, the Lake of Fire in
the world to come.
―What must I do to be saved?‖ the Philippian jailer had cried to Paul and Silas.
―Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ,‖ they answered. The man believed, as had
Dave — he truly had, he told himself.
But elsewhere, the instructions got more specific. ―If you confess with your
mouth the Lord Jesus,‖ Paul wrote to the Romans, ―and believe in your heart that God
has raised him from the dead, you will be saved.‖ An additional clause or two, the
process a bit more complex.
David had confessed with his mouth, back on that evening with Mr. Thompson.
But his heart had been burdened with fear, not bursting with faith. According to TV
movies on Saturday afternoons, during the launch protocol for nuclear missiles, the
officers turned their keys at exactly the same moment. Did salvation work in a similar
manner? If the belief and confession weren‘t synchronized — formally stamped with the
same date and time, right there in the Book of Life — would the booster engines fail to
ignite? And without the celestial rockets, how would you get to heaven?
Such questions could overwhelm him, especially at Hayden Valley Tabernacle,
where Pastor Harrison‘s face could burn with passion — a visual reminder of hell and the
torment of the unredeemed. David would squirm in the pew, anxious about his soul.
Had he been sealed with the Spirit for eternity? Was he washed in the blood of the
Lamb?
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Some weeks, the pressure became too great. As the organist cycled through the
hymn — four, five, even six verses of ―I Surrender All‖ or ―Just As I Am‖ — the
evangelist would extend his plea. He could wait, enough time for one final sinner to
cling to the old rugged cross. David inched past his family, ignoring his mother‘s scowl
and his sister‘s mouthed question: ―Where are you going?‖ Visiting preachers would
shout in celebration. Not Pastor Harrison, who was concerned by the young man‘s
routine.
He trod the center aisle, his gaze locked on the communion table, ―In
Remembrance of Me‖ inscribed on the polished wood. He knelt at the steps to the stage
and closed his eyes, clasping his hands until they hurt. Making the pain real, convincing
himself he was truly present. He tried to amplify his senses and catalogue each detail.
He would never, ever, ever forget the moment.
Once, after the service was over, Pastor sat with him in the front pew. He talked
about eternal security: ―Once you are saved, David, you are always saved.‖ They looked
at a tract called ―The Train of Salvation.‖ On the cover, an engine was pulling a coal car
and a caboose. The engine was Fact, which was fueled by Faith and pulled the caboose
of Feeling. The train could run without that final car.
Does that make sense? Pastor asked. No matter how you feel, your salvation
won‘t disappear. Nothing, not even your death, can separate you from the love of Christ.
Romans 8:38-39. Once Jesus starts his good work in your heart, He‘ll never stop — not
till He returns or He calls you home. Philippians 1:6.
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David nodded. He felt childish, now that the music had stopped and the church
had emptied. He wanted to leave. He couldn‘t explain how it felt, listening to that call.
When the panic hit. When the altar pulled you to the front. When your chest grew so
tight, your heart was about to explode.
Back in the car, his mother reminded him of the verses that Mr. Thompson had
written: ―No matter how lost you feel, she said, Jesus has you firmly in his hands.‖
Mr. Pete was less encouraging. ―Sometimes,‖ he explained, catching his
stepson‘s eye in the rearview mirror, ―that fear is the work of the Holy Spirit, warning
you that it‘s time to get your business straight with God.‖
Later that night, David worried about the coal — the faith that fueled the train.
What happened, he wondered, when a believer‘s supply was tapped out?
Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to
completion until the day of Christ Jesus.
Philippians 1:6
He almost suffocated, the first time he heard the song at Midfield Bible
Fellowship. He was five or six, paying scant attention to the service. But the lilt in the
melody caught his attention — like a sea chanty, something the Lost Boys might sing in
Peter Pan. The opening lyrics broke this pleasant spell:
I was sinking deep in sin, far from the peaceful shore.
Very deeply stained within, sinking to rise no more;
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The image struck home — not the concept of sin or stain, but the feeling of drowning.
He could see through the eyes of the doomed man: the water that rose and fell, obscuring
his vision. The waves entered his mouth, and his throat began to close. The resolution to
this crisis came early in the song — the second half of that opening verse:
But the Master of the sea heard my despairing cry,
From the waters lifted me, now safe am I.
David missed the dramatic rescue. He was choking and gasping for air. By the time the
chorus arrived — the bass voices offering their counterpoint to the women of the church
— Mom was rushing him from the sanctuary.
An allergic reaction, she determined. Something he ate for breakfast. For years,
nectarines were off-limits.
He never told her the truth — not even that night, when a nightmare based on the
song had left him screaming in the dark. It was all too easy, slipping beneath those
waves. The arms of the Savior were harder to feel.
Love lifted me! (even me)
Love lifted me! (even me)
When nothing else could help,
Love . . . lif-ted . . . me!
He became a junkie, he explained to Bethany. She‘d popped the question on their
first date: When was he saved? She traced her own conversion to church camp, the
summer between seventh and eight grade.
―Which time?‖ he said.
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―What do you mean, which time?‖ His answer confounded her. To Dave, it was
the most natural explanation in the world. Far easier to grasp than certainty, the ability to
pinpoint a specific time and date — as if CNN, the Celestial News Network, had captured
the moment for its archives.
He described that earliest memory — praying at the couch — and the years in
Hocking County, when he couldn‘t last more than two months without marching to the
altar for his fix. The urge would become too great, and he‘d ask Christ to be his Savior
once again.
Back at Midfield Bible Fellowship, where the sermons were encouraging, not
confrontational — Mr. Pete would have labeled them ―compromised‖ — the need to
double-check his salvation lessened. Still, whenever a chapel speaker at MCA would
shake him to the core, he inwardly answered the call to ―rededicate‖ his life. ―That way,‖
he explained to Bethany, ―you weren‘t denying the previous commitment. You didn‘t
have to admit your fears to your friends and family, the people who thought you were
already saved.‖ It was like renewing your health insurance, making sure that your
coverage was continuous. No . . . more like an umbrella policy. Your house was already
protected with fire insurance — your body preserved from hell, your mansion in heaven
secure. But there might be loopholes. It was good to obtain that extra layer of coverage,
just in case. Because you never knew—
―But you do know!‖ cried Bethany. ―That‘s the whole point of Eternal Security,
those verses from Romans you cited.‖
―I do now. I was an emotional child, easy to sway.‖
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The truth was, he still walked the aisle in his heart. On Spiritual Emphasis Day,
he passed out wooden stakes to his devotional class — encouraging students to inscribe
their commitments in permanent marker, along with the date, and drive the memento into
their yard. He always kept one for himself. The collection was growing in his closet, one
stake a year. When the vampires attacked, he‘d be ready. When the last trumpet sounded
. . . well, that was his greater fear.
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Grandpa Speaks of Pittsburgh, Take III
―Son.‖
―Grandson.‖
―Son, have you ever been to Pittsburgh?‖
David shook his head.
―Probably for the best,‖ said Grandpa. ―It‘s the city God dropped.‖
―The city God dropped?‖
―The whole town, utilities and all. Slipped out of his hands and crashed-landed in
Pennsylvania.‖
God had been hard at work, hauling cities across the Keystone State. He‘d snap
off a chunk of New York, then thread His way past the Appalachian ridgelines — taking
Denver to the Rockies or Memphis to the Mississippi. Like the loaves and the fishes,
Grandpa explained. When Jesus broke the bread in two, those biscuits kept multiplying
— like the servers at Cracker Barrel who refilled the tea until you floated off to
Chattanooga. Five thousand people were fed — not to mention those baskets of
leftovers, one for each of the disciples. Well, the cities on the coast, God used them like
he used the bread: source material for settlements farther inland.
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―The smaller pieces, He chucked like Frisbees.‖ Mansfield. Chillicothe. Peoria.
―He skipped Ann Arbor across Lake Erie.‖ Hiking next to a stream, Grandpa would find
a smooth stone and furnish a visual aid: ―one, two, three hops into Michigan.‖
Sometimes, the town might get snagged in a valley. Which explained Harper‘s
Ferry and Johnson City, in Grandpa‘s opinion. Not to mention Charleston, West
Virginia.
He carried the largest sections, the primary reason that so many cities landed in
Ohio. After hoisting a thick slice of Baltimore across the Alleghenies, God would be
eager to set down the burden — Cleveland, Akron, Columbus — and turn back for the
next load.
―Every now and then, He‘d get a big idea — like throwing Omaha on His back
and trekking all the way out to Nebraska.‖ One epic stroll, He lifted St. Louis with one
hand, Kansas City with the other — like a waiter balancing two trays of dishes — and
pinned Missouri to the earth. The Show Me state had developed this bad habit of
wandering, slipping off to scout the country for itself. The bookends imposed a
semblance of order.
Not everything went according to plan. As he carried Minneapolis past the Great
Lakes, God slipped on the bank of Lake Michigan. Soon, the gouge filled with water.
He named it Green Bay, some inside joke with Jeremiah, and wiped his muddy sandal on
Wisconsin. ―A few of those northern lakes?‖ Grandpa said. ―Heel prints.‖ The others
were divots from angels — the hackers of the heavenly host, who golfed on their day of
rest. The Dairy State made an excellent tee when chipping into Canada.
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―Anyway, annoyed at the mishap, God dropped Minneapolis harder than He had
intended.‖ The Minnesota ground was frozen, the metropolitan area brittle from the
frigid air. ―The city just snapped in two. But God being God, He divined a pretty good
solution.‖ He named the smaller chunk St. Paul — after His wacky friend from the
Epistles — and told the cities to play nice. ―‗It is not good for towns to be alone,‘ God
explained. ‗Especially out where it‘s so darn cold.‘‖
He let the disciples handle the Southwest, giving them lots of room to muck about
and make little mistakes. Things went wrong from the start. The Mormons blocked
access into Utah. Then, when Levi tried setting a town near Pike‘s Peak, the locals drove
him away. They‘d have nothing to do with a government official, especially a former tax
collector. So Judas stepped in with Colorado Springs instead.
Even worse, they started this competition, seeing who could found the most cities,
and everything got out of hand. They established Tuscon and Los Angeles, Flagstaff and
Phoenix and Santa Fe, all before the Lord could stop them — explaining that annual
rainfall in that arid country would never sustain these civic dreams. ―No more,‖ He said,
a second before Peter dropped Las Vegas with a thud. The Creator looked at the Western
rivers, sorrow and foresight within His eyes. ―I‘m terribly sorry,‖ He told the rushing
waters. ―This wasn‘t exactly my plan.‖
Pittsburgh was also an accident, according to Grandpa. The Lord and Enoch had
been talking by the Chesapeake Bay, reminiscing about the Fertile Crescent. ―Walk with
me,‖ God said. ―There‘s a valley in Montana I want you to see.‖ So they headed west,
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stopping in Philly to grab cheesesteak sandwiches and an armload of Scotch-Irish
neighborhoods, not certain where they would fit.
―Somewhere in Ohio,‖ God said.
―You put everything in Ohio,‖ said Enoch. ―What about Indiana?‖
―What about it?‖
―You could drop it on the border — half in one state, half in the other. Like you
did with Bristol, down in Virginia and Tennessee.‖
God considered the proposal. ―Maybe with Toledo. But don‘t blame me for
Bristol — that was Peter‘s idea, not Mine. He wanted to set it further east, touching
North Carolina as well. A third of the city in each state: one for my Son, one for Moses,
and another for Elijah.‖
Enoch laughed.
―I know,‖ said God. ―Peter. You gotta love him. Well — I do, at least. You get
to make up your own mind. Two states, I told him. Not three. He grumbled, but
accepted My Will in the end.‖ They were following the banks of the Youghiogheny, and
God adjusted His grip on the cargo. ―Still, I‘m worried about that town. In the future,
they‘re going to construct this massive stadium — something akin to that Ziggurat at
Babel. People will gather from miles around, watching men race in circles for hours on
end.‖ He shrugged. ―I‘m concerned it‘s Pete‘s fault.‖
―Remember his plan for South Dakota?‖
―The corn tabernacle?‖
―No, out in the Black Hills — sculpting each prophet‘s face on a different
mountain, so tourists could literally walk through the Old Testament.‖
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―That‘s right.‖ God laughed. ―If I wanted Noah’s mug on a mountain, I told him,
I’d carve it on Ararat.‖
―Well,‖ Grandpa said, ―at that moment, laughing about Peter, God stubbed his toe
near the Monongahela River.‖
―God stubbed His toe?‖
―Is there an echo in here? You don‘t think God has toes?‖ He didn‘t wait for
David‘s answer. ―You can imagine what happened.‖
―What?‖
―I told you to imagine it.‖ Grandpa was silent for a moment, pretending the tale
was finished.
―What happened?‖
―You know when you slip on a rug, how it scrunches into folds?‖
David nodded.
―The same thing happens to land. As His toe plowed through the crust of the
earth, God kicked up this series of ridges — right there, next to the river.‖
―Really?‖
―Why do you think they‘re called foothills?‖
David groaned. ―What about Pittsburgh?‖
Grandpa was solemn. ―Now that was the real tragedy. The city slipped out of His
hands and splattered all over the place. Some of the neighborhoods were fine, landing
down in the valley. But the rest dropped on hillsides, crowded together on steep inclines.
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The houses look ready to slide down the mountain. But they won‘t. They landed with
just enough force to stay put.‖
God knocked a few tunnels for roads and trains, then left the residents to sort
things out.
―Well, that‘s the pits,‖ said Enoch, looking at the disheveled city. ―No offense,
Lord.‖
―None taken,‖ answered God.
―So they named the city Pittsburgh,‖ said Grandpa. It was the third or fourth time
he‘d told David the tale. ―You don‘t believe me? Go to Pennsylvania. Take a look for
yourself. Tell me it doesn‘t look like God dropped a city on the mountains.‖
When David finally saw Pittsburgh, the yarn lost a portion of its luster. Grandpa
was right: the neighborhoods were scattered all over the place. That part of the story rang
true. But the downtown, positioned so carefully — wedged between the converging
rivers — it seemed too planned to be an accident. The city was too well . . . aimed.
On the brochure from E†B‘s national camp, where clubbers from across the
country gathered for two weeks in July, there was a picture of a giant water-balloon
slingshot. Surely, Dave reasoned, this man-made contraption was modeled after a
celestial catapult, a device God used for launching cities across the continent. Pittsburgh
had been a direct hit.
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On Dayton, Ohio. Because if Pittsburgh resembles a direct hit, a shot that God
made Himself with the Celestial City Catapult, then Dayton was fired by the
disciples. After all, you can’t find a better target than the crosshairs formed by
Interstates Seventy and Seventy-Five, not when aiming a device whose sole purpose
is slinging mid-sized metropolitan areas from the coast to the heartland of the
continent. Yet they missed, and Dayton had landed several miles to the south.
Being Dave‘s thoughts as he draws near the city of flight.
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Review Problem – Section IV
Geometry – Mr. Kingman
Name: _____________________________
You’ve come into possession of a glorious toy: a water balloon slingshot with a massive
range, capable of firing projectiles hundreds of miles. Positioning yourself in Baltimore,
you aim along Interstate 70 (which, for the sake of this assignment, defies real-world
geography and runs due east). Your target? Dayton, Ohio, only ten miles south of the I70/I-75 interchange, which is 450 miles to the west of your location. To compensate for
the southern drift, you aim 1° to your left.
1. If your aim is steady, how many feet from the target will your shot land?
2. Suppose you wanted to hit Cincinnati, 50 miles south of Dayton. How many degrees
to the left should you aim?
Interstate 75
Interstate 70
A
B
Baltimore
Dayton
D
Cincinnati
C
AB = 450 Miles
AD = 10 Miles
DC = 50 Miles
Angle ABD = 1°
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SECTION V: TERMINAL HYDRAULIC
In which the teacher cannot escape his thoughts. Also, a statue of Christ gives chase.
Crossroads and Crosshairs — The Gem City, a mile at a time — Ohio: Where Else? —
Dialogues on Election — Flood Control & Earthen Dams — An Art Museum — Eagles,
Crusaders, and Knights — An Evangelical Douche — Engagement, Ohio — Tar Pits
Jesus — XXX — Pete Rose & Ezra Pound — First Beer Proves Disappointing — Satan’s
Sin Pit — Irresistible Grace — Bill Clinton, Noah, & the Monks of Gethsemane —
Prophets in Pantsuits — Stunts on the Interstate — Review Problem, Section V
Interstate 75
● Dayton
● Cincinnati
Dave
Lexington ●
LENGTH: 197 miles on I-75, from the outskirts of Dayton to the hills south of Berea, KY.
HIGHLIGHTS: Historic floods; a giant statue of Christ; facts about driving across
Kentucky.
CAUTIONS: See HIGHLIGHTS
TRAILHEAD: The Crossroads of America, the intersection of I-75 and I-70.
Friday morning, 1:45 A.M. October 15, 2010
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The Passion of the Miami Valley
A giant cross floats above the Midwest. It drifts east, past Kansas and
Missouri, a slow-moving front that shadows the plains. The land tilts, sloping
to drink at the Mississippi River, and the speed begins to increase. The
apparition clears the broad channel and climbs the bank into Illinois. Its
velocity lessens, and it coasts to a halt, hovering above western Ohio — ―The
Heart of It All‖ — directly over the Miami Valley.
Gravity seizes control,
wrenching the cross to the
earth. Mighty beams slam
into the ground, which
shudders at the impact. They
crush forest and settlement,
courthouse and oak. They
sink into the fields, tattooed
against the land.
Asphalt lava spreads along
each gash. It cools like balm,
forming a permanent scar.
Open the wound to the public.
Travelers pour from state to state, dashing from the Rockies to the
Chesapeake, slicing the country from Sault Ste. Marie to the Florida Keys.
Destinations don‘t matter — not really — as long as they maintain a
reasonable speed.
319
The Crossroads of America
Interstate 70 nears.
The golden junction: where a North-South route meets its East-West twin.
Dave pictures the crossroads as a cross.
Asphalt itself will cry out, says the Gospel of Luke.
Dave pictures the cross as crosshairs: a ray gun‘s target on Spaceship Earth.
The intersection has transformed since Dave was a child. The former exchange was a
death trap, a cloverleaf whose dual-purpose merge lanes required high-speed weaving. A
relic from the Eisenhower era, ill-equipped to handle the 21st century traffic.
The new construction is a knot of flyovers. Jets adorn the concrete walls, a tribute to the
region‘s heritage of aviation. Such images taunt motorists and their futile attempts at
haste. Imagine a scale from dead calm to Chuck Yeager: the drivers are closer to the
grave than they are to the speed of sound.
Curiosity at the Crossroads
1. How many cars use this junction each week?
2. Out of 300 million Americans, how many will visit the intersection in a given year?
3. What fragment of the US population has passed within 10 miles of Dayton, Ohio?
4. How many reside along these two routes? What fraction of the nation as a whole?
320
The Gem City
INTERSTATE 75, MILEPOST 61:
Dave contemplates the Electoral College. Could a
candidate work exclusively along I-75 and I-70, a
Greyhound update to the whistle stop campaign, and
assemble the votes to win a national election?
MILE 60:
He thinks about politics — red states and blue states,
old states and new states — and composes rhymes,
plagiarizing lines from Dr. Seuss:
One State, Two States.
Red State, Blue State.
This one has a couple stars.
That one has a lot of bars.
Do you like the Glenn Beck’s ham?
I do not like it, Sam-I-Am.
Is there really much difference, he wonders, between the good people who live along I-75
and the folks along I-15? How were the citizens more homogenous: by state, or by
interstate?
Perhaps we should scrap the very notion of states — a quaint, outdated paradigm, a
horse-and-cart model in the age of internal combustion — and realign ourselves by
highway instead?
MILE 59:
Dave laughs at the sign for Needmore Road.
Why don’t you build some? he asks.
MILE 58:
Dave attempts to compose a pun, asking a brother to paradigm.
MILE 57:
He spots a sign for Wright State University.
Wright State, wrong school, his Grandfather likes to joke.
321
Nicknames for Dayton that Dave can recall:
1. The Crossroads of America
2. The Birthplace of Aviation
3. The Gem City.
None of the names seem to fit. 1. The crossroads are north of the city limits. What‘s
more, I-70 ends in Utah, not the shores of the Pacific, leaving millions of West Coast
citizens without the proper access. 2. The Wright Brothers were born here, but they
didn‘t stay. They left for the East Coast, where they took flight. 3. He tries to
envision the region as gem-like, but it just doesn‘t strike him as precious.
MILE 56:
The skyline emerges. The first of the rivers appears.
Three streams converge on the city: the Stillwater, the
Great Miami, the Mad. This knowledge — added to his
grasp of the city‘s nicknames — places Dave within an
elite class of American citizens.
— Not so brilliant as one might suppose. He has forgotten Wolf Creek.
MILE 54:
The road turns to avoid the downtown: a modest collection of buildings, but nothing that
scrapes the clouds. Still, they contain more stories than one might expect, out here in
western Ohio.
The city‘s population is shrinking, down from 240,000 in the 1970s to 160,000 in these
harsh economic times. On the other hand, its greater metropolitan area is going strong:
almost a million people.
— A million people. In Dayton, Ohio?
It is the mystery of the entire state.
Why — given such a grand nation — have so many citizens settled here?
322
They aren‘t massive, these cities. Nothing like Chicago or
Houston, Phoenix or Denver or San Francisco. But they‘re
incessant. They rise from the fields, one right after the next:
seventy thousand, forty thousand, sixty thousand, until you get
to eleven million.
But that‘s Ohio for you: round on the ends and high in the
middle, with plenty of room for one more. Like the old couple
down the block, those neighbors so humble and modest, you
never suspect their secret: decades of diligent saving and
compound interest have left them a fortune in the bank.
Where does the country live?
— California. Texas. New York.
Obvious enough. Florida.
— Sure, given our southern drift. Illinois. Pennsylvania.
Which makes sense, right? Long states — one north-south,
the other east-west — both with a major city.
But then, in seventh place?
Tourism slogan, a recommendation: OHIO. WHERE ELSE?
323
Oral Examination: U.S. History, the Executive Branch
Where are Presidents born?
— That’s easy. Virginia.
Names, please. All eight.
— Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe . . . Wilson . . . . Hint, please —
HT2 . . .
— Harrison, Tyler . . .Taylor.
Very good. Try a harder question: where‘s the second-best factory?
— New York? Van Buren and Fillmore, Roosevelt times two.
Sorry. Not the Empire State.
— Massachusetts?
Adams & Son. Kennedy. Bush the First. Third time‘s the charm.
Try the Buckeye state, where forgotten presidents sprout like corn:
Grant, Hayes, Garfield, Harrison, McKinley, Taft, Harding.
[ Seven in all, thinks Dave. None born in Dayton. ]
324
Oral Examination: the Electoral College
You‘re a Presidential candidate. Which would you rather win? Ohio, or Kentucky . . .
— Ohio.
Let me finish. Ohio, or Kentucky and Tennessee?
— Ohio.
No contest, right? Try Ohio . . . or Washington-Oregon?
— Ohio.
Alabama-Mississippi?
— You can’t be serious.
Let‘s up the ante. Suppose you‘re a covert political operative, holding the Buckeye state
in your pocket. A member of the opposition corners you in a dark alley behind the
Capital, proposing a collegial swap: Ohio for Colorado, Utah, and Nevada, one for three.
Remember, hotshot: that‘s Denver, Salt Lake City, and Las Vegas.
— Really? That’s all you’ve got?
What about the center of the nation: Nebraska-Kansas-Oklahoma? The New England
coast: Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Maine? A larger package, with plenty of
acreage and miles of riverfront views? Montana, Wyoming, both Dakotas, Idaho . . . hell,
throw in Alaska as well.
— No, No, and No again.
[ Smart politician, thinks Dave. Stick with the nuts, every time. ]
325
The Art of the Deal
Once, in a heated game of Monopoly, Grandfather taught him the art of the deal.
The art of the swindle, to be precise. He tempted David with a portfolio of lesser
properties — Mediterranean, Vermont, the Short Line Railroad — and a stack of bills an
inch think. All his grandson had to exchange was Park Place.
Grandfather sweetened the bargain with a ―Get Out of Jail Free‖ card, and David
succumbed to the pressure — ignoring the fact that turns in prison were rent-free, a bonus
in the latter stages of the game. Their stalemate had lasted an hour. After the swap, the
game was over in twenty minutes. The pile of money was nothing but filler: tens and
fives, crinkled and folded to give them additional volume. Petty cash, easily drained by
opposing hotels.
You had to be careful, explained Grandfather. Weigh the variables, count the
money, and beware the hustle. Make sure that you‘re getting fair value.
The next day, in a re-match, David attempted to turn the table. He offered
Kentucky, Marvin Gardens, and the Electric Company, all in exchange for Boardwalk.
Grandfather took the bait, then slipped past the trap on seven consecutive turns.
Meanwhile, his grandson kept landing on lesser squares. They bled his account dry.
―You sacrificed too much,‖ Grandfather claimed. ―Trying to land the big kill.‖
―But last time—‖
―Last time doesn‘t matter. Past performance does not guarantee future results.‖
326
Classifieds
Take-Home Question
Imagine a game of political monopoly — the squares assigned to states, not the streets of
Atlantic City, and their values based on the electoral college. California replaces Boardwalk.
Park Place becomes Texas. New York, Florida, and Illinois are the green properties. What
would you trade for Ohio?
From the State Transportation Map, 2007-2009 (Ohio DOT)
• Note the compulsion to snatch William Henry Harrison from Virginia. Compare this
impulse to the state‘s Birthplace of Aviation license plates, designed to infuriate the chamber
of commerce in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Complete the picture: call a sports talk program
in Columbus and claim that the speed of SEC football is superior to Big 10 smashmouth.
(Advertisement)
OHIO ON THE ROPES.
After seven Commanders-in-chief between 1869 and 1923, Ohio’s Presidential drought
has lasted for almost eight decades. After five national championships in football (1942,
1954, 1957, 1968, 2002), the Ohio State Buckeyes were overwhelmed in the BCS
Championship games in 2007 and 2008. Is there a connection between the two declines?
What matters more when electing a President? The state’s electoral votes, or its
success in college football? See the Bonus Features for a statistical argument in favor of
using the BCS standings to predict the home states of future U.S. Presidents .
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Deluge
In March 1913, Dayton was swamped with an epic flood.
Heavy rains fell on frozen ground, and ten feet of water swept through the downtown.
Rainfall, March 21-25: 9-11‖
Estimated Runoff: 90%
River Flow on March 25: 100,000 Cubic Feet per Second
Comparable to . . . Niagara Falls
Property Damage in 1913 dollars: $100,000,000
Casualties: 360
A series of dramatic measures was devised: at the time, ―the largest public works
project in the world,‖ according to the Miami Conservancy District. River channels were
altered and lined with steep levees, but the gems of the flood prevention system were its
five earthen dams. They are dry dams: concrete conduits allow the river to pass at its
usual pace. Buttressed by thousands of tons of earth, they are static, not mechanical.
Independent of their creators, they function without human supervision.
[ Indeed, thinks Dave, the valleys will be dammed for millennia.
The concrete will shepherd the waters, long after the humans have disappeared. ]
Photos by Lawrence Forsythe
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Years later, at the request of local residents, a series of low dams was also
constructed, forming a string of reservoirs that expanded the options for fishing and
boating.
From a distance, the short drops look inviting, a play spot for teens and their inner
tubes. But the smooth arc is deceptive, masking a violent roil at the base.
Photos by Lawrence Forsythe
Once, on a visit to the city, Dave explored the bike path
that runs along the river. He stopped at a low dam, transfixed
by the trunk of a fallen tree. It had been carried downstream
from the northern counties and was trapped in the surf. The
wood submerged, flew vertical, submerged, popped
horizontal, submerged . . . again and again and again.
It was a big piece of timber, over a foot thick, but the heft
didn‘t matter. The river toyed with it like a Lincoln log.
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A Helpful Explanation
There is a technical name for the danger: a terminal hydraulic.
— Can you use that in a sentence, please?
1. Sisyphus ignored the warning signs when paddling on the Great Miami River. He
found himself caught in a terminal hydraulic.
2. Some days, Dave‘s life feels like a terminal hydraulic. He has not yet found
himself.
3. When a crocodile seizes its prey, it swims to the bottom and turns over and over in
circles: a death roll. There is a strong resemblance between the death roll of a
crocodile and the terminal hydraulics on the Great Miami River.
4. The Miami Conservancy District includes no fewer than six low dams. The number
of crocodiles at large in the valley is currently unknown.
5. The city has considered removing these hazards and replacing them with artificial
rapids — features that would appeal to whitewater enthusiasts and the canoe lobby.
6. Dave knows nothing of these schemes. A shame, really, because the information
would abet his conversation in several hours — a natural topic in his discussion with
the kayakers from Section VI.
— Good to know. Also, in sentence five, does the word ―hazards‖ refer to dams or
crocodiles?
7. The low dams. Dayton has no clear strategy for dealing with its crocodile problem.
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Beauty is Relative
MILE 54:
At night, a low dam and its terminal hydraulic is difficult to spot. Especially from the
interstate, passing the city at sixty miles an hour. The rivers are dark, filled to the brink
with shadows and carp.
Few things in this world are more terrifying than violent water in the dark. Those
things that are, they should not be named.
The Masons know things that should not be named. A low dam flows within sight of
their imposing temple. Its rigid geometry hearkens back to the founding fathers and
Washington, D.C.
At night, flood lights illuminate the building. Its daunting façade is easy to spot.
Flood lights are seldom restrained by earthen dams.
Photos by Lawrence Forsythe
Near the Masonic temple is the Dayton Art Institute, a world-renowned museum. A
citadel on the bluff, guarding a bend in the river. A bluff that a fort might have claimed,
when forts were still claiming bluffs.
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Picture a fort low on ammunition.
Its commanding officer refuses to surrender. He bluffs.
A museum is also a fort, Dave thinks. It protects the art from the savage citizens.
A museum is also a prison: it protects the citizen from the savage art.
A museum is also a fort. It protects the art from the average citizens.
A museum is also a prison: it protects the citizen from the average art.
Dave wishes he had an uncle named Art, a second cousin once removed.
Art would be a kind and gentle man. There are few of them left in the world.
— Clarification, please. Few what? Kind and gentle men, or men named Art?
Both, really. What‘s more, to encounter them in a single individual? Well, the
statistics are rather stunning. It would be good and proper to gather the remnant and
preserve their spirit. To offer them food and lodging: shelter from this cruel, harsh world.
— Ah, yes. I see. An Art Museum.
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Stillwater Christian
I
Somewhere, among the oak-lined streets behind the museum, a large Christian
school was squirreled away. Had been squirreled away, to be precise. Stillwater
Christian had moved, following its patrons and a real estate deal to the outer bands of the
city. But for years, a high school and elementary stood on a ridge in the Salem Park
neighborhood, a fortress on a hill.
The original buildings were hand-me-downs, sold to the Protestants by the
Catholic church. The grade school had once been a convent. Its rooms and halls formed
an intricate maze that spiraled about a secret, interior courtyard — a labyrinth so dense
and confounding, lost students still wandered its turns. They prayed the last trumpet
could pierce those thick walls. Attached by a breezeway, the high school was housed in a
former academy for girls. No matter how hard you looked, you couldn‘t find a urinal in
the entire building.
The ghosts of the nuns roamed the hallways at night. If you sat in the auditorium
in the dark, you could hear their footsteps on the second and third floors. When the night
custodian paused in his duties, he listened to the peculiar sounds from deserted, pitchblack corridors: the metallic rhythm as locker doors opened and closed.
Dave didn‘t believe half these tales. Most of them came from Brian Youngman,
who transferred to MCA during Dave‘s junior year. That spring, they ran on the track
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team together. Brian railed against Midfield at practice — a no-count hick town, he
called it. Yet he seemed to idolize the makeshift facilities at his former school.
According to Brian, they had it soft at MCA: practice fields, stadium, and their own
cinder track, all in a modest complex that adjoined the campus. Not at SCS. Their
practices had been epic. The team ran the streets of the city, sliding across car hoods and
dodging buses, searching for roads with light traffic patterns and parks with imposing
hills. The hurdlers learned not to fall — not with their marks set on sidewalks.
Stillwater owned a decrepit track to the east, out with the soccer fields at the
junior high. Every time Brian described his former school, he mentioned a new campus.
The franchise was scattered throughout the city.
Why not drive over to the track for practice? asked Dave.
Didn‘t have a bus, Brian answered. He sneered at the thought of such luxury.
Didn‘t the students have cars?
Sure they did. But driving cross-town with the upperclassmen? A bigger gamble
than interval workouts in the hood.
Brian could wax poetic on that perilous commute, which he‘d risked every fall
with the soccer team. Over the years, he claimed, the drive had evolved into a madcap
race: Van Halen on the stereo, and rubber on the asphalt. If Coach beat you to the field,
you ran laps for each minute you were late. So the juniors and seniors risked daring
shortcuts. They tempted fate at lights. The players on the JV squad were never so
spiritual, praying they‘d find a ride, then — after snagging that coveted seat —
committing themselves to a lifetime of missions work if God would safely deliver them
to practice.
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Away games were even worse. If mothers knew half the risks their sons took,
they would have thrown a marathon bake sale and raised enough cash for a bus. Not to
mention the school‘s lawyers, whose arteries would have popped, just considering the
liability.
Dave was skeptical of these legends. Brian had been angry about his family‘s
move. In fact, watching him struggle had been a major factor — that following summer
— in Dave‘s own decision to remain behind in Midfield. To live with his father and
complete his final year at MCA, rather than leaving for Tennessee with Mom and Rachel.
These days, he couldn‘t help question his choice. If he hadn‘t stayed in Midfield,
would he still have applied to Fisher? Would he now be teaching at MCA?
If he‘d gone to Tennessee, he might have been hiking with Grandpa and Rachel
on the Middle Prong, that day when the old man ruined his leg. When she pushed him
past his limits, simply to outdo her brother.
All of those choices — his college and career, his relationship with his family . . .
even Bethany — all of them offshoots of Youngman‘s bitter tongue. It was horrific,
really, how one troubled man could cross your path and alter the course of your life.
II
MCA was scarcely a blip on the SCS radar, but Stratham and the other Midfield
administrators had a strong, incurable case of Stillwater envy. They wouldn‘t admit it,
but they kept a near-constant eye to the south — trying to guess the next great
breakthrough in Christian education.
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Like Isengard and Barad-dûr, thought Dave. The Two Towers. Saruman hoping
to rival Mordor, but never exceeding a feeble imitation.
Other strongholds were scattered throughout the country: the fertile, evangelical
ground near Colorado Springs; the suburbs of Nashville; even the eastern shores of Lake
Michigan, where the Dutch Reformed had yoked themselves to John Calvin and the spirit
of Geneva, sowing Christian high schools like their ancestors once planted tulip bulbs. In
western Ohio, however, Stillwater Christian was top of the regional chain. Stratham even
admired its name, both a nod to the local geography — the nearby Stillwater River —
and a reference to Psalm 23, whose safe, quiet pastures were a model for the classroom.
MCA‘s board had considered a name change as well, something with similar
layers of meaning. But the only stream in town was Folley Creek.
If MCA teachers attended a regional convention for Christian schools, Stratham
encouraged corporate espionage. Invite an SCS teacher to dinner at the Cracker Barrel,
he suggested, and learn what their school was planning next. After SCS changed its
mascot from the Knights to the Patriots — abandoning the medieval icon for a more
American symbol — he commissioned Gordon to research the best options for Christian
high schools. To ensure that Eagles were the ideal brand for MCA.
The task was a waste of time, in David‘s opinion. Everyone knew that a Christian
school had two choices for a mascot: 1. Eagles; or 2. Men with weapons — Knights,
Warriors, and Crusaders.
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III
Dave had befriended a teacher from Stillwater Christian, back in the year of cold
feet, when Bethany thought he was waffling. He never dated Susan — not technically, at
least. Even so, he kept the relationship a secret. He didn‘t want to sabotage his budding
connection with Beth.
They met at an ACSI leadership conference and struck up a friendship. When
Dave visited Susan in Dayton, he slept on the couch in her living room — an innocent
arrangement, but one that both schools would have criticized. Which made it all the
more appealing, in Dave‘s opinion. One night, he carried a pillow into her room and lay
on the floor near her bed. They talked long past midnight. When she finally fell asleep,
her breathing deep and peaceful, he slipped back to the couch and tried to keep listening.
The next day, Susan felt guilty about the lapse in discretion, and she raised the
dread question as punishment: whether or not they were actually a couple. It was the
same story as the other Christian girls that he‘d known. Any time they were convicted
about crossing an unspoken threshold of physical intimacy — falling asleep on the same
couch, or kissing with too vigorous a tongue — they paused to dissect the relationship.
To ensure they were making the right decision, but also — Dave was convinced — to
restrain the male‘s libido. Because few things were worse than discussing how serious
you were. How close to marriage, that final plunge. The very thought could paralyze:
intercourse with your first and only partner, the woman you‘d sleep with the rest of your
life.
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So Dave would confound them. He‘d discourage their hopes and warn them not
to expect anything, then snuggle close as they watched a romantic movie. The virgin‘s
version of a one-night stand. The calling card of an evangelical douche.
When a youth pastor from Xenia showed interest in Susan, she asked Dave to
cease his visits. A year later, her marriage caught him by surprise: when he ran into her
at a convention for Christian coaches, she was already a Mrs. She looked happy and
content. Meanwhile, he was stuck at MCA, his relationship with Beth in its nascent
stages. As the chapel speakers talked about Christ‘s return, he would echo the prayer of
every student in the auditorium: Come quickly, Lord . . . but, if you don’t mind, please
wait until after I’m married. In other words, they all longed for the Rapture to arrive . . .
just not until they had sex.
IV
Dave watches the cars on the opposite side of the interstate. He envisions a
teacher from Stillwater Christian, a man whose flight mirrors his own — racing north,
bound for the upper peninsula of Michigan, where he‘ll seek out the wisdom of moose
and wolves. Unsatisfied at SCS, convinced that the secrets to life are guarded by
northern pine. He will probe the wisdom of the Canucks, follow the tracks of a grizzled
trapper, and sit at the feet of an ancient Tahquamenon sage.
At night, the roads of the nation are crowded with Christian schoolteachers.
Hundreds, each of them running away. Thousands. They converge on the mountains
from every direction: Jeremy from Atlanta, Tracy from Nashville, and Morgan from
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Indianapolis. Charlotte from Charlotte, who taught physical science to junior high
students, whose heart beat with a passion she couldn‘t explain.
Perhaps she raced across the Piedmont at this very moment. What would Dave
say, when she appeared at the base of Shuckstack‘s tower? Like Ruth crawling into the
bed of Boaz. Like Rebekah drawing water at the well. Like Bathsheba on the rooftop,
the woman whose heirs would include the Son of God.
Would he open the pack and offer her Bethany‘s ring? If she smiled — shy but
sensual — and accepted it from his hand, would that be the sign of Gideon‘s fleece?
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Pun with Grandpa
―Can you spot Engagement?‖
―What‘s that?‖ David had pulled the old RandMcNally atlas off the bookshelf in Grandpa‘s
house. He examined its map of Ohio.
―Engagement, Ohio.‖ Grandpa tapped his
finger on the center of the state. ―About
halfway between Dayton and Marion.‖
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Tar Pits Jesus
The remnants of Christ were drawing near. Dave braced himself for
disappointment. That summer, fire from a lightning strike had destroyed a shrine of
Biblical proportions. The greatest spectacle along Interstate 75, at least in his humble
opinion.
The exit had always been a highlight, a reprieve from the tedious landscape
between Dayton and Cincinnati. On both sides of the road, flea markets stretched for
hundreds of yards: row after row of deserted shelters, awaiting the weekend caravans of
pop-top campers, the hordes of hoarders and Antiques Roadshow junkies. Each direction
held promise, but Dave always preferred the view to the east: the bold red stallion that
reared on the sign — flaunting its gender to the passing world — and bright yellow
giraffes on the roof of each building. Flamboyant animals, as if Noah crash-landed the
ark in a crayon factory.
He didn‘t recall when the church first appeared. One trip, the fields were empty;
the next, they were dominated by an elaborate new compound, raised on a low mound of
earth that rose above the landscape — like the house built on the rock, the prudent
structure that Christ admired in the Sermon on the Mount. Flood the entire state, and the
buildings would survive. Down the road, the menagerie would burst from the latex shells
and migrate toward the sanctuary, fleeing this second deluge. Animals could be sheltered
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amid the acres of parking, lined two by two: make and model, foreign and domestic, stick
shift and automatic, cloven and uncloven hoof.
The complex itself was impressive — aesthetically pleasing, with red-tiled roofs
and crisp, white walls. Sometimes, on trips from Midfield to Maryville, Dave would
pretend an Italian billionaire had constructed a Tuscan manor in southwest Ohio, its
walkways lined with arches, sculptures, and vine-encrusted latticework.
He didn‘t know if the church and the flea markets were connected, but he thought
they might be symbiotic: the temple of God, and the moneychangers that hovered outside
its gates.
The biggest, the grandest addition had been more recent. Dave missed the sign of
its coming: a rectangular pool at the base of a small amphitheater. Simply a retaining
pond, he assumed at first — wetlands compliance for the EPA. He didn‘t connect its flat
sheen to the nearby stockpile, the ingredients for the Lord of Hosts.
He didn‘t see Jesus rise from the earth. The next time he traveled that way, the
alabaster head and torso were already looming above the pond, the arms raised even
higher in supplication. But the
waist and the legs remained
hidden, concealed within the
Ohio strata. Christ appeared to
be stuck, asking the Father for
a boost. The hands seemed too
large, but Dave knew they were
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probably right: a rural carpenter would have meaty paws, not to mention a few smashed
digits. Still, he liked to imagine an alternate cause, linked to Ohio‘s weather. The Son of
Man was suffering from exposure. His fingers had swollen with frostbite.
The spectacle captured the public‘s imagination. Tourists made detours and posed
their kids to spell Y-M-C-A, the Lord of Creation furnishing the Y, and posted the
photos online. The highway patrol filled its coffers, ticketing pilgrims who parked on
the berm of the interstate to gawk. For graphic designers and Photoshop experts, the
temptation proved irresistible. They gave the statue sunglasses and a volleyball:
Christ at the beach. They added a flaming guitar and a tie-dyed headband: Jesus
Hendrix. A referee‘s shirt and cap: Touchdown Jesus, like Notre Dame‘s famous
icon, but in three dimensions, one more than the Catholics could boast. Dave‘s
personal favorite was Say Anything Jesus: Christ holding a boom box over his head,
blasting tunes by Gabriel in a last-ditch effort to woo his children.
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The most widespread nickname was Big Butter Jesus, based on the color and
texture of the statue. A musician had popularized the name and scored a hit with a
novelty song. But Dave had composed his own tag for the sight: Tar Pits Jesus. Because
the entire scene reminded him of the La Brea Tar Pits in Los Angeles. He‘d never seen
them in person, only a bad disaster movie about volcanoes and Southern California. To
Dave, Christ wasn‘t calling the Father from Gethsemane. He was sinking into the earth,
right alongside the Ice Age mammals, the woolly mammoths and saber-toothed cats. A
faith that had stalled but refused to disappear, never quite taking that final plunge and
vanishing into the deep. Jesus was sliding into the reflection pool, the way Peter slipped
into Galilee. Striding on water was easy, a cakewalk, a walk in the park, what with the
surface tension and buoyancy and all of Newtonian physics at your disposal. Breaking
free of Ohio, where the landscape dulled you to sleep — like that bed of poppies in Oz —
now that was the harder task. By the time you were trapped, it was far too late to escape.
Welcome home, Lord, thought Dave. Once the Buckeye State grabs hold, you‘re
stuck here for good, caught in The Heart of It All.
But Jesus had left Ohio. Tragedy struck that past summer . . . struck literally, as
in a lightning strike to the Savior‘s hand, a conflagration that spread down the arm and
consumed the entire statue. Dave had followed the story online, this sensational news
that Christ was ablaze. The photographs were astounding: a flaming effigy, a vision
straight out of Revelation. The transcripts of the 911 calls were inspired: drivers on the
interstate, stressing the earnest nature of their calls — uncertain if flames were supposed
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to be leaping from the Savior‘s hand. Jesus was on fire, and they wanted to spread the
word.
The reactions of the church members revealed their struggle. Most of the
bereaved congregation was saddened at the loss of the beloved statue. A few voiced
concerns that the strike was a heavenly sign, worried that God frowned on king-size
monuments to His only begotten Son, the same way He‘d chastised Peter on the Mount of
Transfiguration. Were there better investments for thousands and thousands of dollars?
Or were they simply following the example of Mary Magdalene — that bottle of costly
perfume and the lavish, glorious waste in the Savior‘s honor?
The sculptor planned to rebuild the statue. Dave supported the idea, but was
disturbed by rumors of changing the original design — plans to create a full-figured Jesus
instead, like Christ the Redeemer in Rio de Janerio. It felt like a defeat, an implicit
agreement that the original statue . . . well, it might have been rather silly. No, Dave
wanted the artist to damn the critics, plowing full speed ahead with an exact replica.
Christ the Phoenix — rising once again from the ashes of His destruction.
Not that anyone would request Dave‘s input.
Not that it mattered. At the moment, all that was left
was a skeleton of blackened steel: Christ stickfigured, not transfigured.
Not that the beams would be visible, not at
night. Security lights enveloped the compound, but
the pool and the ashes were dark.
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Christ the Redeemer
Cincinnati inched north every year, advancing one exit at a time. The orange
barrels came first, the official state flower. Was there a state in the union without its
version of that joke? Then a new lane, a widened off-ramp, and the restaurants and malls
that supported the local ecosystem, the neighborhoods and office parks that relied on
Chipotle and Earthfare and Panera Bread for their food supply.
At the same time, the suburbs were creeping south from Dayton. The farmland
was consumed from two directions. The cities converged on Middletown and its
prescient name. They would fuse by midcentury. On satellite photos taken at night,
their lights had already merged. Cinton?
Daynati? Dincinnati? Dave ran through the
names that columnists had proposed for the
new metropolis.
To the northeast, Springfield would
soon be absorbed as well. In time, the sprawl
might even join forces with Columbus, a vast,
metropolitan arc that could rival the
Cleveland-Akron-Canton corridor in the
opposite corner of the state.
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Not that such combinations would be unique, not by the end of the 21st century.
Dave thought about cities along his route. Lexington would be joined to Louisville, that
much was certain. The only debate would be the billing: which would play Dallas, and
who would be Forth Worth. Frankfurt, of course, would be Arlington. Further south,
Knoxville and Chattanooga would unite. Atlanta‘s tendrils would mingle with the outer
bands of Charlotte, like two massive weather systems — a front sweeping east, and a
hurricane swirling on the coastal plain. A perfect storm, swallowing land until nothing
but concrete remained. Once again, squirrels and other rodents could travel from the
Mississippi to the Atlantic without ever touching the ground, simply by leaping from roof
to roof: Target to Best Buy to PetsMart, Walgreens to Rite-Aid to CVS. The fruition of
Joni Mitchell‘s apocalyptic nightmare.
Dave mocked his own skeptical vision. Who the hell was he trying to fool? Land
wasn‘t the problem. Everybody knew that. The nation would run out of water, decades
before it ran out of land.
Perhaps Jesus could save them. Christ the Redeemer would prove His worth.
Position the outstretched arms of the statue to the north and the south — one to Dayton,
the other to Cincinnati — commanding the barbarians to halt. Like the Great Wall of
China, or those massive statues on the river Anduin. The encroaching sprawl would be
forced to stop. Christ would raise his hands, and the concrete would simply roll back,
like the waters of the Red Sea.
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If it worked in Ohio, the message could be spread. Like the early church on its
missionary journeys, or the resistance fighters from Independence Day, using old Morse
Code to pass along the solution — the secret to stopping this alien menace. Soon enough,
statues of Jesus would ring the outskirts of every major city, thwarting town councils that
wanted to annex the countryside. The Savior would foil their business plans, like He
ransacked those merchants who sullied the temple grounds. Because, really, wasn‘t the
whole earth the temple of God? Hadn‘t he set that flaming sword at the entrance to His
personal garden? Forcing contractors to halt at the gates of Eden, suggesting they try hell
instead. The building codes were lax in Sodom.
The National Forest Service could adopt a similar tactic. This far you may build,
each monument would proclaim, but no farther. The Lion of Judah: the ultimate
Secretary of the Interior.
Perhaps that’s what the zealots were trying to accomplish, erecting those crosses
in Tennessee. Imposing structures, visible for miles — so large, they weren‘t even wood,
but corrugated siding on a steel frame. The type of materials that Solomon would have
used, given the access to modern technology. Who needs cedar from Lebanon? We‘ve
got everlasting plastic.
They were a warning to developers, a shield against the earthmover crews and
survey teams that were looking to wreck the landscape. Be gone, you bulldozers of
Satan, the crosses declared. This landscape has been claimed for Christ and preserved for
the wilderness.
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Only they‘d failed. At least one of the crosses was prominent in Loudon County,
a beacon for malls that spread west along I-40, drawing Knoxville‘s center of population
miles away from its downtown. Another stood watch over Pigeon Forge and its acres of
outlet shopping, go-cart tracks, and musical tribute theaters. An abomination of
desolation, the opening stop on Dave‘s agenda when Christ passed out swords at the
Judgment.
Roman Numerals
Dave knew about three crosses, though he guessed there were more.
Pigeon Forge, Loudon County, and his favorite, an old friend from those drives
between Ohio and Tennessee. He would pass it in four, maybe five hours. On the
Cumberland Plateau, not long after Jellico Mountain. Jellybean Mountain, Rachel
used to say. The exit featured a fireworks store with dinosaurs and a Ferris wheel
and a rocket ship and a large, inflatable gorilla. The cross towered above the
opposite side of the interstate, both the primary monument and its sidekick: a
wooden crucifix that looked miniature by comparison. Dave had always
respected this lesser edition. It seemed about right — small but potent, kin to
Golgotha‘s beams of death.
On the next-door property was a long, single-story building. Cars would
be scattered out front at all hours of the day and night, the semis in a lot at one
side. On the windowless exterior, a line-up of neon dancers kicked their can-can
legs, and a red XXX marked the front entrance. Which explained the smaller
cross. It witnessed to souls who passed through those doors: whatever they were
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about to see or buy or touch, Christ already knew. He‘d forgiven it all, hanging
limp on that tree.
―What‘s XXX?‖ Tracy asked, one of their many trips.
―Thirty,‖ said Mom.
―Thirty? Like three-zero?‖
―Yes. Those are Roman numerals, honey.‖
―Is that a Roman building?‖
―Not really. People use Roman numerals to make something look nicer
than it really is.‖
Rachel accepted the answer. ―Like David‘s Grandmother,‖ she decided.
―What‘s that?‖
―Like you told me. She spends an hour each morning, trying to erase the
years.‖
―Something like that.‖ Mom caught her son‘s eye in the rearview mirror.
―Don‘t mention that to your father, okay?‖
―Are there really thirty dancers in that building?‖ asked Rachel.
―I don‘t know, honey. Probably not.‖
If Jesus couldn‘t save them, this recession might. Southwest Ohio had been
walloped good, and construction had slowed to a crawl. Could an economic downturn be
the work of the Holy Spirit, a sign from Heaven that maybe — just maybe — they were
taking this building obsession a step too far?
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When the ancients had proved too enterprising — the contractors at Babel a step
too ambitious — the Lord had seen fit to disrupt their progress. The earliest example of
government interference in a free-market economy.
How would He stem the 21st century? Dave could only hypothesize, but he
guessed that the internet would be involved. The Lord had used language to hinder the
Mesopotamian builders. Now He‘d invented the digital babel of the World Wide Web, a
brand new spin on an Old Testament curse.
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Secretary of the Interior
On the drive through Cincinnati, Dave thinks about . . .
1. . . . the billboard with a digital tally of cars that a local dealership has sold. He envies
those numbers — not merely the financial profit that they reveal, but the way that they
quantify the passage of time. Rather, because hours and days are themselves
quantifiable, how the numbers track achievement amid time‘s passing. What had he
accomplished in the past decade that created a similar level of contentment, prosperity
or happiness — for buyer and seller alike — as the men who paired cars with hundreds
of satisfied buyers?
2. . . . the hills that increase as the Ohio River nears. The city reminds him of Pittsburgh.
3. . . . a billboard for the Creation Museum — a tourist attraction across the river in
Newport, Kentucky. It makes him ill, just a little bit.
3b. . . . whether he‘s a poor excuse for a Christian, given this sour reaction.
3c. . . . his prayer that angels react the same way.
3d. . . . whether angels that answer vindictive prayers are actually angels at all.
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Something he does not consider:
the regrettable but striking connections between Pete Rose & Ezra Pound.
On the drive through Cincinnati
Graffiti on an overpass, Chris Sabo died for your sins.
4. . . . the Great American Ball Park and Paul Brown Stadium — homes of the Reds and
the Bengals. They are visible near the merge with Interstate Seventy-One. The road
begins to climb, preparing to cross the Ohio River.
5. . . . the dark water, hundreds of feet beneath the double-decker bridge.
5b. . . . cranking the wheel to the right, and aiming the truck between massive supports.
Gunning the engine for that final, stomach-wrenching plunge.
5c. . . . whether the bridge was designed to prevent such a suicidal crash.
6. . . . if the rental truck to his left is packed with explosives, a plot by eco-terrorists to
knock out this artery of commerce: a ruined bridge and instant gridlock, a logistical
nightmare for the center of the country. Such a scheme would be scheduled for a
deserted hour, such as 2:30 AM on a Friday morning, in order to limit civilian
casualties.
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Northern Kentucky, y’all
Dave ascends the long grade from the south bank of the Ohio River to the tablelands of
Kentucky. As he begins his drive across the Bluegrass State, he dwells on the following
subjects. . . .
INTERSTATE 75, MILEPOST 191:
. . . a Reds game that he once attended with his father. Over a decade earlier, down at
Riverfront Stadium, when the team was still sharing Cinergy Field with the Bengals.
They traveled to Cincinnati on a tour bus, a morale-building trip for the company
employees, and sat in green seats that bordered the outfield. A message on the
scoreboard welcomed their group to the park. The Reds lost, but one of Dad‘s assistants
bought him a soft pretzel. A consolation treat, she said.
By the time they returned to the bus, his thirst was intense, and the Cokes in the
cooler were gone. Most of the ice had melted, but a handful of pieces remained,
floating next to a few cans of beer. David winced. The anti-drinking rhetoric at MCA
was fierce. Sucking on ice that had shared a cooler with alcohol? It felt improper, like
that classic New Testament dilemma — eating meat that had been offered to idols. Yet
desire won out in the end. David scooped out the ice, careful not to brush against the
pop-tops, and tossed the chips in his mouth.
He regretted the choice at once: something peculiar about the taste. He spit the
melting fragments into his hand and wiped them on his pants. The water was tainted.
One of the beers must have sprung a leak, or some joker had tossed an empty can into
the cooler, allowing the dregs to seep out.
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Such alarm was absurd: his imagination at work, nothing more. He‘d smelled
beer on someone‘s breath, and wasn‘t the sense of smell linked to your sense of taste?
The entire drive home, he couldn‘t shake a feeling of shame and disappointment
— this vivid sense of personal defeat. That past spring, he‘d signed a commitment to
never drink. Mr. Hamilton had shown them a disturbing video — car wrecks and coma
patients and parents in mourning — then passed around pledge sheets that everyone
could volunteer to sign. Now, less than a year later, David had already broken his word.
Not that he thought he would actually keep the vow. But he wanted to enjoy the
moment he shattered his promise, savoring that initial drink: an ice cold beer at the end of
an epic hike, or a glass of wine in a real Italian vineyard. Not this accidental fall,
undermined by his own thirst — like Esau, who traded away a birthright because of his
tired flesh. Dave wanted a real taste of sin, not this inadvertent sip.
Even the sin let him down. It wasn‘t half as fun as it promised to be. Which
bothered him: it proved that bombastic parade of visiting preachers correct.
That was his real question about the apple Eve tasted. Not whether it was a literal
apple or a peach or a cantaloupe or a passion fruit or a mango or simply a metaphor. Was
it any good? That’s what he wanted to know. Did she savor that bite and relish the
sweet, sweet juices that dripped from the sides of her mouth, convinced her new
knowledge was worth its terrible cost? Or was the taste bland? Rancid, even? Was the
flavor dull, the texture offensive? A great letdown, even before the pain of childbirth —
which God tacked to the bill as he tossed them from the restaurant, an exorbitant
surcharge hidden within the fine print.
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You had to think hard before you answered. Because your response said a great
deal about your vision of the human condition. Not to mention, it told you an awful lot
about your God.
First Beer
Later, amid his fifth and final year at Fisher — his ―victory lap,‖ he called it —
Dave finally tasted his first ―official‖ beer. He was twenty-two years old, visiting
the Pro Football Hall of Fame on an impromptu road trip with a friend. The
occasion warranted a drink. After touring the shrine, they decided to raise a cold
one in honor of the gridiron legends. It would violate the Community Covenant,
but the campus vice squad was hours to the west. So they slipped into a Canton
sports bar and ordered two beers.
The Cleveland Cavaliers were on the television. They must have pissed
off that bartender, claiming such prime real estate — two stools in the center of
the bar — as they sat there the entire game, each nursing that single bottle. Dave
couldn‘t even finish the drink. Ilglauskas and the Cavs lost. On the whole,
another disappointment.
Dave‘s ―Victory Lap‖
Grandmother was not amused. Not by his lame attempt at humor, and not by
the news that he needed another semester to graduate. She didn‘t understand how
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it took five years to earn a degree, especially in a ―soft‖ field like Secondary
Education. No one else in the family . . . all of them finished in four years,
earning stellar marks and accolades along the way. ―I can‘t imagine they‘ve
changed the curriculum,‖ she said. ―If anything, they‘ve scaled back the
requirements — making it easier to graduate on time.‖ One of her favorite
subjects was the tragic, near-criminal dismantling of Fisher‘s once-rigorous core.
She promised to make a few calls and double-check his advisor‘s plan.
Dave insisted that wasn‘t necessary. Dr. Manning was more than competent. If
anything, the hiring standards had risen since she was a student. He ignored her
snort — the same way he overlooked her asides about the watered-down
academics, the feeble loyalty to alma mater, or the paltry espirit de corps in the
current student body.
It was nobody‘s fault but his own, he argued. It wasn‘t even a fault. He
was late to declare a major, switching from engineering to mathematics to
business, until finally deciding he wanted to teach. By the time he entered the
track for Secondary Education, he was already behind. Now, he was almost
caught up, but he needed to finish his student teaching.
The explanation didn‘t satisfy her. Grandmother wasn‘t happy with his
career choice, so learning that it wasn‘t a ―calling‖ — simply the last stop on an
uncertain path, the only chair open when the music ceased — well, such waffling
was a sign of his immaturity.
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Truth be told — and Dave didn‘t intend to let the truth get within a half
mile of Grandmother — truth be told, he was happy to take an extra year. It
delayed the decision he‘d already made. Deep down, he knew he belonged in the
classroom. But until he signed that contract . . . until he stepped in front of a desk
and brought the students to attention . . . until then, he imagined he still had a
choice.
Those Who Can‘t, Preach
Not that Grandmother‘s attitude was unique. Parents lauded MCA and its
strong, Biblical approach to education, but they were horrified if their children
decided to teach there. Such a poor-paying position? That wasn‘t the return
they‘d been promised on their investment.
The same applied to campus ministries. Students were encouraged to
attend Intervarsity or RUF or the Navigators, especially if they ventured onto the
heathen landscape of a secular university. But heaven forbid they actually join
the staff. They were smart and intelligent: they should be doctors and bankers
and engineers. They ought to support a missionary, not become one.
One time, Dave had offended a father in a parent-teacher conference. A
local music pastor, the man had been frustrated that his son — who showed
promise in Biology and Chemistry — was determined to pursue a degree in
elementary education.
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―Oh well,‖ the dad said. ―I suppose it‘s true what they say. Those who
can, do. Those who can‘t . . .‖
Dave broke the thought before he could check himself. ―Preach,‖ he said.
MILE 180:
. . . the Florence Y‘all water tower. Its profile looms to the west. In the daylight, the red
and white stripes would be clear and distinct, its message in crisp black print: FLORENCE
Y’ALL.
According to legend, the message was going to advertise the Florence Mall,
luring travellers into Sears and the food court.
With the paint job partially complete,
however, a watchdog raised troublesome
questions about public funding and private
ventures. In particular, the odds that the ad
was illegal. So a local official had a brilliant
idea: the painters could salvage their work by
exchanging a Y‘ for the M — Florence Y‘all
rather than Florence Mall — like students who
tampered with their report cards, transforming
each D to a B-.
They created a cultural landmark. Whether it celebrated ingenuity or carelessness
— the Eiffel Tower, or the Leaning Tower of Pisa — Dave could never decide. In either
case, he hoped that its message held true: no matter how bad you screwed up this life,
your lone shot at being a human, a touch of improvisation could salvage the effort. You
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didn‘t have to start over from scratch. Because you couldn‘t. No matter how much you
wanted to try again . . . well, you could never rewind. No one got a second chance — not
a true one, at least.
MILE 175:
. . . the sign for Big Bone Lick State Park. The name amuses him, drawing a juvenile
chuckle with the innuendo.
He knows about salt licks, of course. A settler must have unearthed an impressive
skeleton at the site, unaware that two centuries later, the thought of a mighty bone would
cause an immature teacher to snicker like an eighth grade boy.
Not that Dave knew about fellatio in junior high — even in high school, as far as
he could recall. It was embarrassing, to be honest — the number of years it took him to
understand that oral sex wasn‘t the same thing as French kissing. The topic certainly
wasn‘t part of the MCA curriculum. In Health Class, the sexual education unit was
restricted to sterile discussions of procreation and cautionary tales about venereal disease.
There were special performances by AC/MC, the Abstinence Club at Midfield Christian.
The bravest students in the entire school, in Dave‘s opinion. They marched their cheesy
skits and song parodies into the heart of Gomorrah: the auditoriums of the local public
schools, where they endured ridicule that would have made Stephen wince.
Satan‘s Sin Pit
Health wasn‘t the only course that cautioned students about sex. The
subject was also covered in shop class: Home Maintenance, a required elective for
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all male students. They learned about drop-forged tools and plumbing fixtures
and built a wall unit with studs, insulation, and functional wiring. On the opposite
side of campus, the girls studied Home Economics. They practiced ironing,
cooking, and budgeting for groceries on the post-tithe income from a husband‘s
job.
Every Wednesday, when class periods were shortened to accommodate
chapel, the power drills and sewing machines were silent. Teachers lectured the
students about gender roles in a Christian home. The boys were taught about
spiritual authority; the girls were provided a positive spin on submission.
Sex surfaced in Bible class as well. Not only when reading the Old
Testament, which had enough bedroom scenes to warrant an R-rating, even before
the violence was taken into account. Not to mention the profanity and graphic
language that most translations scrubbed clean.
In the New Testament survey, Mr. Crompton always warned his classes
about Satan‘s Sin Pit, which sounded like a peculiar formation in the Hocking
Hills. It was a legendary lecture, one that he‘d given to MCA students for over
three decades. He diagrammed the pit on the board like a jungle trap that natives
used to snare wild beasts, a deep hole with vertical walls. Brush camouflaged the
drop. Once you were caught in a sin, he explained — whether drug use,
premarital sex, or pornography — it was impossible to escape, not on your own
strength. What‘s more, certain activities fell into that infamous gray region: not
quite sin, but far too close for comfort. Things such as social drinking, light
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petting, and secular rock music. Tempting yourself with them, even cautiously,
was like playing with matches. A single misstep on that slippery slope, and you
found yourself drowning in the Lake of Fire. In the dim light, inching closer and
closer to the edge of the pit, it was hard to tell where solid ground ended and the
fall began. A prudent Christian made the only safe choice: stay clear of the
danger.
Never Give Roses to 7th Grade Boys
One day, the junior high boys were ushered into the auditorium.
Whenever this happened, it usually meant one of two things: 1) someone had
urinated on the radiators in the bathroom again, creating a nasty stench; or 2) they
were going to learn about sin. Both options held promise.
But the presentation was a disappointment. The school counselor rambled
about the beauty of women — their God-ordained role as helper and partner —
and the need to show them the proper respect. Nothing explicit, only suggestion
and allusion. The boys yawned and struggled to stay awake. They tried to
distract their friends in the front row, flicking their earlobes and blowing on their
necks.
For the grand finale, she described a young woman as a precious flower
and held up a rose as an illustration. She handed it to Robert Gilbert and asked
the boys to pass it throughout the room, instructing them to treat it as carefully as
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possible. She should have known better. She was talking to junior high boys, for
Christ‘s sake. By the time it returned to the front, the rose had been stripped of its
petals and snapped in two. The counselor was furious. She threatened them all
with detention, completely missing her own vivid lesson: the more a woman was
passed around, the less valuable she became, until nothing was left but thorns.
Looking back on the incident, Dave also spotted a second moral. When
trying to maintain his social status and impress peers, a boy would treat a girl in a
horrible manner. In the future, how many of them would chart sexual conquests
like they once tracked athletic stats, keeping a running tally beneath the bill of a
favorite cap? How many would court a naïve undergraduate with hollow
promises — taking her to bed, then launching a cruel campaign of cool disinterest
and verbal abuse — and reduce her self-esteem to rubble? Were their actions
prophetic, that day they manhandled the rose?
MILE 173:
. . . Interstate Seventy-one, which breaks to the east, destined for Louisville. Cincinnati,
Louisville, Lexington. Dave imagines a geometry problem based on the triangle they
form. Something in conjunction with the northern triad — Cincinnati, Dayton, Columbus
— that mirrors the shape across the X-axis of the Ohio River and the Y-axis of I-75.
Dave always felt bad for I-71. It was prominent in Ohio, cutting a diagonal that
linked the three largest cities in the state. Across the border, however, it was far less
significant.
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I-76 linked the Rocky Mountains to the East Coast. I-77 probed the heartland of
the South. I-71 trickled along the Ohio River for a hundred miles.
Dave could relate. Well-known and respected at MCA — a mid-sized fish in a
tiny pond — he was anonymous in this ocean of night, the world beyond the school‘s
walls.
After the split, the number of lanes decreases, and the traffic thins even more. It
strikes him as significant, this marked effect of a partner‘s absence.
Another union is down the road: two of them, in fact. Near Lexington, I-64 will
approach from the west and share lanes with I-75 for several minutes. Down in
Knoxville, an even greater coupling will transpire: I-75 spliced to I-40, the north-south
power joined to the east-west monolith. For a few holy miles, the mighty highways ride
in tandem down the valley of the Tennessee. How many acres would the parking lot
cover, their concrete and asphalt devoted to a single square?
It reminds him of marriage: the two lives merging together, moving through life
on a similar path. Traffic and possessions intermingled, at least for the stretch of time
that the partners shared. But they were destined to drift apart — each searching for
something that the other didn‘t want. I-71 headed for Louisville, while I-75 held steady,
Lexington in its sights. Dad had remained in Midfield, unable to reconcile with Mom,
who finally broke for Tennessee.
It is a cynical view of the institution. The highways were seldom united. Their
moment together was brief, a rare deviation from miles they spent alone. An accurate
metaphor for his mother‘s life, but not the vision he wants for himself.
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The Marriage (stream)Bed
One time, hiking in the woods, Grandpa paused at the intersection of two
creeks. ―See that?‖ he said to David. ―The way that two streams become one.
That‘s how marriage is supposed to work.‖ It didn‘t matter which possessed more
water or whose channel proved dominant, he claimed — whether one kept its title
or they took a new name to celebrate the union. The power derived from their
unified surge. Once the two had combined, you didn‘t pull them apart. Sure, the
waters might break for an island, but they would always reunite. ―Travel a mile
or two downstream, and draw a glass of water from the creek,‖ he suggested.
―Try telling which spring was its source.‖
Which revealed a problem with his analogy. A clever scientist could
probably design an array of tests and make an educated guess. An indication of
the modern dilemma, in Dave‘s opinion. We‘ve gotten so good at dissecting
things, we forget how much it destroys.
MILE 166:
. . . Northern invasions of the South. Dave enters Grant County, which contains the small
town of Sherman. Columns of troops have preceded him. Ranks of minivans, armed
with their portable DVD players and an arsenal of Silly Bandz — a new campaign to
splinter the Confederacy.
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MILE 156:
. . . Bill Clinton. The connection seems natural to Dave — the sign for Williamstown, so
soon after Big Bone Lick. During the Lewinsky scandal, he learned more about ―sexual
relations‖ from the nightly news than he ever gleaned from school. Which angers him.
Even now, he knows more about sex from a President‘s infidelity than from actual, firsthand experience.
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The First Tuesday in November
1991. The night Clinton was first elected. Dave was allowed to stay up past his bedtime
and watch the initial returns: states flashing red, matching the shade of Mr. Pete‘s face.
His stepfather swore at the bias of the network coverage and cursed the ignorance of the
American public. People shouldn‘t be allowed to vote, he declared, not unless they‘ve
passed a test on American history and proved they can speak the English language. The
real American history, he clarified, not the liberal bullshit they force-fed students in
public schools. Make voters sign a loyalty oath and prove their knowledge of the
Constitution? Those left-wing, commie-loving, reefer-smokers would be out of office in
a snap.
Governor Clinton hated the American Dream. He would use his newfound power
to strangle the wallets of decent, hard-working citizens. ―Mark my words,‖ said Mr.
Pete. ―That man‖ — he pointed at the screen, his voice filled with hatred and derision —
―that man is going to be the Anti-Christ.‖
That night, tossing in bed, David lamented this cruel twist of fate, convinced that
the nation was poised for disaster. The future was darker than ever before. His entire
life, a Republican had been leading the country. Were the End Times here at last? He
wanted to get out his Bible and re-read Revelation, to learn the next sign and event.
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Suppose these weren‘t the last days. The country would suffer, a downward
spiral — economic as well as moral — that would dominate his prime decades. Wasn‘t
that always the case with a left-wing President? According to Mr. Pete‘s version of
history, at least.
Could America survive with a Democrat in charge? David couldn‘t shake the
ominous conviction: his future was ruined. His potential for greatness had disappeared,
now that the liberals were in control. America was supposed to be the land of
opportunity. Anything was possible for a young man with talent and determination. But
an exemption clause had been hidden within the fine print of Manifest Destiny: electing a
socialist leader would terminate the warranty and void God‘s blessing on national
growth.
1999. Things seemed to work with Clinton in charge. Even so, Dave was among the
Fisher freshmen who cheered when Florida got taken off the board — too close to call —
and Dan Rather slipped into a backwoods idiom. The student body was over 90%
Republican. Crowds gathered in the student commons to mock Al Gore and jeer at each
hanging chad.
In the years to come, Dave‘s stance began to weaken. The reverse of that old
cliché: the liberal and passionate youth who matured with conservative wisdom. He still
landed right of the center, but he wasn‘t rabid. Take Gordon, for example, who once
joked that watching NASCAR bothered him — all of those drivers, constantly turning
left.
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2003. When W won a second term, at the start of Dave‘s victory lap, he felt a curious
sense of déjà vu. The same depression as Clinton‘s election. No matter which party held
the reins, he was saddled with a sense of doom.
Which was odd, because he didn‘t believe that a government held much real
power. Not in the long run, the grand scheme of things. It could make plenty of shortterm misery, that much was certain. But large-scale revolution would inevitably come,
regardless of the individuals in charge.
Take China and the United States, their opposing beliefs about government. If
aliens orbited the stratosphere — if they looked at our cities and roads and general
behavior, watching us eat and work and fight and make love — could they really
distinguish between the two nations?
Consider another angle. Whose lives would have more in common? Russians
and Americans from the same decade? Or Americans that lived two centuries apart?
Take the daily minutiae of John Boehner‘s life. The telephone, refrigeration, the
automobile, computers: it had far more in common with Vladimir Putin‘s reality than it
did with the world of Thomas Paine.
Technology brought the most meaningful changes, not Congress. Democracy
kept the balance unstable, holding each party in check — ensuring that neither side could
entrench itself and really cause trouble. Dave prayed for gridlock in the capitol, for
myopic leaders who focused on Washington and got too distracted to meddle elsewhere.
Cultural shifts in morality? Changing attitudes toward religion? They had little
to do with activist judges. People would come to know Christ, with or without prayer in
public schools. The Father didn‘t need elections to gather the elect.
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Jesus shrugged at both FoxNews and CNN. When Hannity baited the Son of
Man, asking a loaded question about government taxation, Christ didn‘t bite. Let
Washington have all the cash that it wants, He said. The Trinity was not Executive,
Legislative, and Judicial. The Kingdom of Heaven was built with the Spirit. It had
nothing to do with a GDP.
America was a land of contradiction, thought Dave. We preach that a determined
and talented man can pull himself up by the bootstraps, regardless of his situation or
starting point. Then we turn on the news and fret about the politicians, convinced they‘re
destroying our lives.
We declare our belief in personal independence. In the next breath, we fuss about
the President, this Commander-in-Chief with the godlike ability to thwart our desires and
control our happiness. Which simply wasn‘t the case. Contentment stems from within.
The equation held true, regardless of the team in office. Godliness with
contentment is great gain. Did Paul say that? The apostle? McCartney? One of the
Pauls, at least. One of the Founding Fathers.
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Irresistible Grace
The interstate was almost empty. Once in a while, the lights of a car would
appear in Dave‘s rearview mirror. They drew closer and closer. Reel him in. He could
still hear the shouts of Coach Davis, his challenge to runners on the backstretch. A few
minutes later, the taillights would disappear.
No one seemed to be following him. If that had been Gordon, back in Ohio,
he‘d long since abandoned the hunt. Even so, Dave couldn‘t shake off the ominous
sensation: he was being pursued.
The vision was straight out of Hollywood. Tar Pits Jesus lowered its arms and
lifted itself from the earth. Like that colossal, fire-spewing beetle that burst from the
alien planet in Starship Troopers. Like the creature from the Black Lagoon. A 21st
century God-zilla.
The statue would be awkward at first: the limbs stiff, the movement unnatural.
The Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz. But once it got loose and conquered inertia, its
momentum on the rise, the specter would move with deceptive speed. Like an ent,
crossing chunks of ground with a single step. What‘s more, once Tar Pits Jesus was on
your trail, it refused to stop. Christ the Terminator. He didn‘t rest. Nothing distracted
Him. He was relentless, this shepherd of doom that hunted His wayward sheep.
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Nothing can separate us from the love of Christ, according to Paul. The statue
waded across the Ohio River — too heavy to use the bridge. Even now, it was scaling
the bluffs on Kentucky‘s shore. As long as Dave kept driving, the distance between
them increased. Whenever he paused, Christ narrowed the gap with each mighty stride.
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Hidden Valleys
I
Dave could sense a valley to his right. The darkness was more intense — the
shadows thick, unbroken by silhouette or starlight. He recalled prior trips across this
stretch of land. It pleased him, assembling the memories like a puzzle. A river would
line the floor of the gorge, a road wedged against its bank.
In the distance, they slipped
around a bend and beckoned travelers to leave the interstate. Whatever you sought, you
weren‘t going to find it at seventy miles an hour.
The slopes rose steeply at first, climbing away from the water. But the pitch
diminished at the top and leveled out to a grassy knoll. The peak had been sanded down.
Erosion was constantly at work: the scouring wind, the burrowing creek, the bulldozer
glaciers. Here, the shapes left behind were parabolas. Dave thought about first and
second derivatives, the change in slope near the top of a curve.
One time, he had used the difference between a sine curve and a cosine curve as a
metaphor to describe his relationship with Bethany: they were headed in the same
direction, charting similar paths, but they could never get in sync. Her reaction merely
proved his point.
The inclines were inviting: occasional trees, but plenty of open space. An
abundance of grass, perfect for rolling downhill. Pull your arms tight against the body,
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and allow gravity to draw it forward. Open your eyes, if you can stomach it. Watch the
blue sky blur with the bluegrass. Beware the cows. Herds grazed on these hillside
pastures, leaving minefields in their wake.
The countryside was deceptive. From the interstate, you marveled at the bucolic
landscape. With enough velocity, you overlooked the shit.
II
Down one of those valleys — somewhere in northern Kentucky, at least — a man
was building an ark. Well . . . raising the funding to build an ark, lobbying for tax
credits. Arguing that an attraction based on a religious text wasn‘t actually religious in
nature.
Dave hadn‘t read the news himself. Gordon discovered the story on the internet,
an ambitious scheme to bring Noah‘s adventure to life.
Why would anyone want to experience that ordeal? asked Dave. The
claustrophobia and cacophony of those quarters? Not to mention the smell.
Exactly, said Gordon. You‘ll get a small glimpse of Noah‘s trial — the depth of
faith it demanded from him. He gave an impassioned account of the potential exhibit on
waste management, a natural problem on a ship that was crowded with animals. That
was sealed for forty days and nights of rain, then rode the waters for another five months.
Even after they landed on Ararat, Noah waited an additional forty days before opening
the single window on the vessel, and another two weeks before the land was completely
dry and they left the ship for good.
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Those two details had always amused Dave. First, that Noah waited so long after
landing to open a window — like a stereotypical father, concerned about letting the heat
escape. And second, that they remained on board until the ground had dried out — as if
soggy turf was an unbearable nuisance at that point in their adventure.
The duration of the flood bothered him. Aside from the mass destruction and
human carnage, of course. Why didn‘t God act faster? Surely everyone who needed to
die was dead. Demolition should be easier than creation. Why didn‘t He pull the plug
and drain the earth a bit sooner, relieving his servant from all those days in the dark? No
wonder that Noah had problems with wine, dealing with his posttraumatic stress.
To his surprise, the park was growing on Dave. He brainstormed ideas for new
attractions. An interactive kiosk that examined the long-term ramifications of limiting
the gene pool. How Noah‘s grandkids had been forced to marry their cousins. How
we‘re all a touch crazy as a result. The animals had it worse. In most cases, for the
second generation to preserve the species, the siblings were forced to mate.
A multitude of genetic mutations had perished in the flood. Think of the diversity
that might now exist — an exponential increase in variations — if the animal families
had developed as nature intended.
There would be information about dinosaurs, Dave was all but certain of that.
How Noah found room on board for the massive animals. Think eggs or babies, and try
hard to swallow. Belief in a young earth meant that humans and dinosaurs needed to
coexist, and God told his servant to save all the animals. Unless you maintained — as
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one of Dave‘s professors had once proposed — that the dinosaur skeletons weren‘t
animal remains at all, but evidence of a world that existed prior to our own, the infamous
―gap‖ between Genesis 1:1 and Genesis 1:2.
Mr. Pete said that dinosaurs were probably the Nephilim: the monstrous offspring
of humans who mated with fallen angels, the giants in the earth that Genesis 6 describes.
Other days, he argued that fossils were an elaborate government hoax — second cousins
to the moon landing and the benefits of fluoride in the water.
Would the park ask that vexing question — what kind of omniscient God went
out of His way to preserve the dinosaurs if He knew they were destined for a quick
extinction in the post-flood environment, an ecosystem transformed by the firmament‘s
collapse?
Would it address the problem of species loss? How pissed God must be, taking
all that care to save the passenger pigeon, only to watch the American settlers blast it out
of the sky.
Suppose you were a human father, away on a long trip. You instructed the
children to feed the family dog. By the time you got home, Rover had starved to death.
If God‘s favorite cat was the snow leopard, we were all in some serious shit
Would the park include water features? Dave wondered. A log ride. Paddleboats.
A wave pool. He thought about Noah‘s vineyard. Would the attractions include a
winery?
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An amusement park was already devoted to the world of Harry Potter. Why not
the Bible as well? Not one of those Holy Land recreations, presenting the ancient world
with the same underpaid but enthusiastic theater majors who taught candle-making at
Colonial Williamsburg. No, Dave wasn‘t interested in simulations. A park inspired by
the book, not mapping it line for line.
The rides came easily enough. You‘d need a coaster, and Elijah‘s flaming chariot
was an obvious choice. Meanwhile, Jonah‘s whale could replace the ubiquitous pirate
ship as a giant swing. The walls of Jericho? An earthquake simulator. David‘s sling and
Samson‘s jawbone? The basis for sideshow games. The Egyptian plagues made a true
house of horrors, and the Sinai maze promised hours of wandering in the wilderness. The
conquest of Canaan? Paintball galore. The Den of Lions and the Fiery Furnace would
roar to life in a 3-D extravaganza.
That was only the Old Testament. The New Testament could be a whole new
experience — like EPCOT, the addendum to Walt Disney World. The book of
Revelation? Clearly a park all its own, the MGM studios of the Bible.
III
Down another valley — in a world all their own — the Trappist monks of
Gethsemane lived out their regimented days. Dave thought about the brothers and their
Abbey, that devotion to a calling. How many souls owed their lives — both physical and
spiritual — to the prayers and intercession of those men? Guardian angels were real,
walking the Kentucky glens in flesh and blood.
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He was romanticizing them. Deep down, he knew they were human — not all
that different from him, in many respects. Wasn‘t that always the case with prophets and
disciples? Abraham. Deborah. Isaiah. John. They had body odor and bowel
movements, days they were grumpy and times they were sad. But it was easier to cope
with your own feeble deeds — how little you‘d done, compared to their feats — if you
imagined their wiring was somehow different than your own.
Same with the monks. He felt shallow, complaining about his life in Midfield,
whenever he thought of their sacrifice. Their rigid schedule and lack of possessions.
Their celebrated abstinence.
On virginity, at least, he could match them stride for stride. Which hadn‘t been
his original plan. It just sort of happened, like most great streaks. Cal Ripken didn‘t set
out to play hundreds of baseball games in a row. He showed up to the park, day after
day after day. Same with Dave. He awoke in the morning and went about his business.
He went to bed. By the time he fell asleep, another day without sex had passed. It was
the accumulation that impressed, a total that dwarfed both Ripken and Gehrig
combined: over 28 years on this planet, almost 10,000 days without getting past second
base.
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How the RIAA killed the Realistic Novel
An Explanatory Note and/or Rant
Dave has read about Thomas Merton and the monks of Gethsemane, but the
immediate trigger for his thoughts is Love and Thunder, an album by singer-songwriter
Andrew Peterson. Dave is fond of Peterson‘s music and chose the CD for this specific
stretch of Kentucky. The track ―The Silence of God‖ raises goose-bumps on his flesh
and draws a handful of cathartic tears. Midway through the number, as Peterson sings
about struggling with faith, the lyrics vault to the Kentucky abbey and a namesake feature
of its grounds: the statue of Christ in the Garden. Even Jesus wrestled with loneliness.
Other songs on the album are significant as well, applicable to Dave‘s journey.
Lyrics about Abraham‘s travels to Canaan & the pillar of fire that Israel once followed in
the desert.
After listening to Love and Thunder, Dave will shuffle through Songs by Rich
Mullins, especially the tracks about Joshua and Elijah. ―Sometimes by Step‖ will be
playing when he halts on the hills south of Berea and lies down on the interstate, thinking
about God‘s promises to Abraham and the scene of Isaac on the altar.
He doesn‘t limit himself to Christian music, of course. The entire drive has
involved a carefully constructed playlist: an opening disk of songs with a quest motif,
such as Springsteen‘s ―Born to Run‖ and U2‘s ―I Still Haven‘t Found What I‘m Looking
For‖; then melancholy numbers for the middle of the trip, ―What a Good Boy‖ by the
Barenaked Ladies and ―Nightswimming‖ by R.E.M. Two of his most inspired choices?
―Learning to Fly‖ as he passed Wapakoneta, and ―Trying to Throw Your Arms Around
the World‖ near Tar Pits Jesus.
Sometimes he has the original disk, which he plays for a song or two, then tosses
like confetti to the passenger side of the truck. Others are personal mixes. A few were
created for driving to games, raising his energy level before coaching. One is from
Bethany: her favorite worship songs, which he intends to play on the journey home — in
praise and celebration, gratitude for a successful hike. A disk from Susan had been timed
to match the Midfield-Dayton drive.
If he owned an MP3 player, it would simplify things a great deal. But he doesn‘t.
He‘s poor.
379
He has reserved songs for specific moments: ―Calling Out Your Name‖ for
crossing Tellico Mountain and the Cumberland Plateau; ―Sweet Child o‘ Mine‖ for the
drive into Knoxville, getting that opening guitar riff to coincide with the first glimpse of
the Sunsphere that towers above World‘s Fair Park. If the rays of the rising sun could be
striking that golden ball . . . well, some things are too much to ask. The Guns ‗n Roses
comes from an actual mix tape — one of the few remaining in Dave‘s collection. A copy
of a gift that he mailed to his sister, back when he was in college. He was trying to shock
Rachel with the secular rock, but her response was indifferent. She thanked him,
mentioned a few of her favorite tracks, and laughed at his penchant for 80s music. He
wasn‘t that old, she remarked.
Certain numbers have elaborate backstories or daydreams connected to them: Def
Leppard‘s ―Animal‖ always plays when his truck — now equipped with rocket launchers
and heavy machine guns — bursts through the gates of the drug lord‘s compound and
Dave cracks open a can of Old Testament whoop-ass on the bastards who kidnapped
Bethany. . . .
— May I interrupt? Only for a second, I promise. This is all fine and well. A touch
self-indulgent, but lovely, really. It’s just . . . it’s not exactly a rant. To be honest, I’m
not sure what you’re upset about.
— I can mention the songs, but I can‘t quote their lyrics. So I can‘t emphasize the
degree that they permeate his drive. Not to the extent that I describe his thoughts and
memories. Not with the detail that I cover the passing sights.
— Which might not be such a bad thing. Less can be more, so I’ve heard.
— Not without shelling out serious cash for royalties. I‘d be chin-deep in legal
paperwork, paying hundreds of dollars to cite each line. And he listens to thousands of
lines.
— You’re supposed to be a writer. Write your own songs for the book.
— But they wouldn‘t be the songs Dave listens to.
— I hate to break it to you, but ―Dave‖ is a figment of your imagination. Imagine
him listening to your songs.
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— You‘re missing the point. I want the experience to be replicable. Think about the
sights between Midfield and The Dragon‘s Brew. They‘re real-life places, visible from
the road. Drive I-75 for yourself, and laugh at the Florence Y‘all water tower or the sign
for Big Bone Lick State Park. If I‘m insisting on that kind of realism for the visuals, then
I‘d like to . . .
— Wait a second. Midfield, Ohio? The Dragon’s Brew? I don’t see either of them
on a map.
— True enough. Some locations are inventions, like a transparency that I‘ve set atop
the actual map. My personal additions to the landscape.
— Why not try the same thing with music? Mention the titles of a few ―real‖ songs.
Then, when you want to include lyrics, create fictional artists to cite.
— Because I‘m stubborn.
— Because you’re lazy. Which probably means there’s a bigger problem: you’re not
picking songs he would actually listen to, because you haven’t considered his personal
tastes in music. You’re merely choosing the songs that you might select on a road trip.
That’s shoddy craftsmanship, Forsythe.
You’ve got to remember, music is such a peculiar thing. You can’t assume that a
reader will understand its emotional resonance, simply from reading a line or two.
— But it‘s the principle that counts. Think about it: most road trips in recent decades
have featured a near-constant stream of music in the background. If you‘re not allowed
to describe that backdrop . . . well, couldn‘t you argue that no one has written a truly
realistic novel about road trips in the same time period?
— You could, if you wanted to be an idiot.
— What‘s more, given the hours that people are plugged to their Ipods, strutting
around with a personal soundtrack . . . well, it‘s nearly impossible to reflect their daily
experience without breaking copyright laws. It‘s the death of the realistic novel.
— Overdramatic, don’t you think? You might want to scale back the rhetoric.
381
— Fair enough. It‘s the death of the realistic novel for lazy writers.
— Better. Closer to the truth. What you need to do, you take advantage of this
technology that you’re whining about. Provide your audience with a playlist: the songs
that Dave listens to, graphed against a map of his route. Include it with the Bonus
Features. That way, when readers open the novel on their Ipads, they can download its
soundtrack and listen as they read. For the audiobook, the music can simply play in the
background.
Take it a step further: fans who want the complete ―Road to Nowhere‖
experience can sync the audiobook & soundtrack with a GPS program, then follow
Dave’s story and listen to the music he plays as they drive along his route. Ink yourself a
deal with Google Maps, and people can use the Street View function to examine his
progress from their home computers.
— Is that all? Anything else, while you‘re re-writing the entire book? Should I turn
it into a novel-slash-video game, a first-person shooter that allows the audience to see
through Dave‘s eyes as they read?
— Interesting. New literary ground: first-person perspective without first-person
narration. Economically sound, too. Video games earn far more money than books.
Could you add an assassin to the plot? A helicopter chase, or vampires? Some zombies
that David can frag while fighting his way to the tower?
— I‘ll see what I can do. Anything else?
— You’re not going to be a smart-ass and include this conversation, are you?
— I wouldn‘t dream of it.
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Prophets in Pantsuits
I-64 arrives from the west, bringing traffic from Frankfurt and thoughts about marriage.
The Interstate drifts to the east, sliding past Lexington’s core. The hazardous particles
from the solar wind are deflected by the planet’s electromagnetic field. Dave is proud of
his metaphor, but hundreds of drivers have probably shared the thought.
In addition, he contemplates . . .
MILE 120:
. . . Bill and Hillary Clinton. Dave prays for the health of their union. For Chelsea‘s
recent nuptials as well. Was there a stronger example of family values in the country?
Imagine the outcry at such a statement: vomit rose in the pundits‘ throats. But he is
serious. How often did marriages fail for petty or selfish reasons? Boredom, the desire
to try something new, as if changing a spouse was like getting a haircut. The right to
pursue happiness, the great American myth. We don‘t have the right to anything, thinks
Dave. Not even to death.
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The Clintons had weathered the storm. How much easier — for both of them,
really — if Hillary had cut Bill loose? Instead, they showed that a love between husband
and wife could smash through a grievous betrayal. The late-night comics joked about the
cold, political nature of the union. That depth of forgiveness was not believable.
What an opportunity the church had lost. Viewing the reconciliation with a
skeptical eye, casting doubts on the sly, calculated motives for staying together. What an
example for struggling families. Hillary was a modern-day Hosea, faithful to her
unfaithful lover, a walking reminder of Christ‘s fidelity to His own adulterous bride. But
you‘d never hear that from a pulpit. We dismiss the minor prophets who wear pantsuits.
The family values crowd rolled their eyes as the Clintons beamed in publicity
photos from their daughter‘s wedding. They ignored the parable, the sermon illustration
that was slapping them in the face. Simply because they disliked a political view. The
same way they refused to believe that Obama could actually be a Christian. If there was
anything more important than politics — and in Dave‘s opinion, most things were more
important than politics — then marriage was certainly among them. Love your enemies,
Christ said. Pray for their happiness, that the God of Heaven smiles on their families and
allows their unions to prosper. Even if you hate their tax proposals. Especially if you
hate their tax proposals.
MILE 112:
. . . loneliness. I-64 departs for West Virginia, leaving I-75 single once again. Dave
wonders about Monica. Perhaps her life could be salvaged, like the Florence Y‘all water
tower. The decades would pass, making her less and less recognizable. New scandals
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would come and go. Still, she‘d carry that stigma the rest of her days, like an unfortunate
tattoo in an obvious location. When her grandkids would Google her name, guess what
they‘d find?
The same went for Chelsea‘s offspring, of course. But their discoveries about
Grandpa would be diluted, offset by a lifetime of public accomplishment.
It was David and Bathsheba once again. The man gets a multitude of press to
draw the focus off his misbehavior: the slingshot and Goliath, the conquest of Jerusalem,
the Psalms. The woman gets a single tale.
You reap what you sow, thinks Dave. But deep down, he hopes that isn‘t the
case. His own life could never survive such a standard.
At the height of her infamy, did Monica ever pretend to be a Lewinsky
impersonator — simply to move in public without harassment?
Could you live a lifetime that way? An impersonation of yourself. If enough
time passed, would you forget your original form? Would you start to believe your own
self-parody?
MILE 104:
. . . how Lexington slips past without much fanfare. A few more lanes and exits, but
nothing dramatic. Not like Dayton and Cincinnati, where the road plowed next to
downtown and showcased the skyline.
385
It disturbs him, the ease of this bypass. How many soulmates has he missed, only
a few miles east or west of their course through this life? On a cosmological scale,
astronomically close in both space and time. In a practical sense, exponentially far apart.
MILE 97:
. . .the Kentucky River. On the bridge across its impressive gorge, a sign forbids
stopping. The span is under surveillance, it claims.
MILE 95:
. . . the exit for Fort Boonesborough State Park. Old Daniel once passed this way,
heading north from the Cumberland Gap. He eventually left, searching for land where he
couldn‘t spot smoke from a neighbor‘s chimney.
What would Boone make of Lexington and the sea of rooftops in its suburbs? So
much had changed in the past two centuries. How would the years to come transform the
landscape? Would they double-stack houses, the same way they double-stacked freeways
in major cities?
Of course they would, thinks Dave. Such futuristic buildings had already arrived.
We call them apartments.
He is loopy, getting sleepier by the mile. He contemplates parking and closing his
eyes, but worries about cops and strangers. Besides, he needs to keep moving in order to
stay on schedule. Half of the state still remains.
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It disturbs his notions of symmetry, how Lexington is close to the center of
Kentucky, but not quite. A touch too far to the north.
MILE 83:
. . . the empty Gatorade bottle in the cupholder. He needs to pee, but he isn‘t that
desperate. Not with an empty road. In the dark, a bush is as good as a urinal.
He last stopped before Cincinnati, almost two hours back. Here, south of
Lexington, an Artisan Center has replaced the rest area. According to the sign, this
showcase for Kentucky arts and crafts is open from 8-8.
Last summer, Bethany had insisted on touring the facility. She admired the
woodworking and the quilts. Dave claimed to prefer the conceptual pieces — the
metalwork that graced the lobby — simply to get a reaction.
They had been travelling to Tennessee. Beth
was eager to meet Mom and Grandpa. For months,
she‘d been pestering him to take her south. He
refused at Christmas. They hadn‘t been dating long
enough, he argued. When June arrived, their
relationship still going strong, he couldn‘t devise an
excuse. Nothing to last until August, at least.
She already knew the Kingmans. Now she
wanted to meet the Walkers, the opposite side of his
family tree. To examine his roots, she teased. To
learn if they were solid.
387
Children of the Covenant
South of Berea, the road met a line of hills — an outer band of Appalachia. Dave
removed his foot from the gas. He turned off the headlights, held the wheel firm, and
relished the thrill of coasting in total darkness. After a moment, he switched them back
on. It was a brief adventure, three or four seconds at most. Even so, the surge of
adrenaline set his heart pounding.
He‘d acted without thinking, and the objections arrived too late to make any
difference. What if the alignment had been warped, his sense of direction skewed? What
if a deer had wandered onto the interstate, or a trooper was watching atop the rise? None
of the questions mattered. He had burst through the darkness and survived.
The truck was still coasting, traveling slower and slower. Gravity and friction ate
at its velocity. Near the apex of the hill, Dave eased to the side of the road. Vertical
walls revealed the exposed strata, the aftermath of the dynamite that blasted this route
through the gap. He stepped from the cab and left the door open. The interior bulb cast a
dim glow on weeds near the berm.
It was four in the morning. The night air was crisp, colder than Midfield had
been, even though he was further south. He thought about latent heat and latitude.
388
Dave unzipped his jeans, taking aim at a can of Bud Light that some asshole had
thrown out the window. He shuddered with relief. The stream hit the aluminum target,
and he backed away to avoid the splatter.
He should have gathered the can and recycled it. Too late now. He felt ashamed.
He ought to be spreading good, blessing the land that he crossed. Instead, he was making
things worse.
Who was he kidding? He wouldn‘t have touched the can, even before it was
soaked in urine. He would fret about germs, or rural cops and local container laws, and
imagine worst-case scenarios for miles at a time. And these worries wouldn‘t be fears,
not really — simply excuses.
He ought to have pissed on the interstate, signing the view from the gap. Brandon
Parker came to mind. Now that was a blast from the past. Back in high school, Brandon
accepted a bet and peed his first name on the wall of the MCA concession stand. He
added a smiley face, a nice touch, but ran dry before the grand finale, a palm tree and
monkey.
Why did boys have such a peculiar fascination with their ability to urinate? In
college, some of his friends would step outside to use the restroom against the neighbor‘s
fence, rather than waiting for a bathroom to open. When Fisher erected a brand-new
athletic center, a gang from his dorm had ―dedicated‖ the building on the night before the
official ceremony. Was the response animalistic, a link to the mammals that sprayed and
marked their territory? Other men had evolved, cultured by capitalism. Because washing
389
your Z71 quad cab at the end of your driveway on a Saturday afternoon . . . wasn‘t that
simply a modern form of pissing your dominance along the property line?
Did the ancients behave in this manner? Had a handful of Israelite soldiers
relieved themselves on the ruins of Jericho, a less formal Ebenezer than Joshua raised at
the Jordan River? What about crossing the Red Sea? Six hundred thousand Israelite men
had left Egypt, not counting the women and children and all of the livestock, as if the
residents of Cleveland uprooted themselves and all took a long group hike. There must
have been one hell of a bottleneck at the entrance to that miraculous path — a shortcut
without any convenient rest areas or artisan centers. You had to believe that a fraction of
the refugees had small bladders and needed to stop for a potty break. Surely, at least one
teenage boy tried peeing into the wall of water, just to see what would happen.
Dave was disgusted at himself. Who thought about things like that? Who
stopped at the top of a gap, this view over central Kentucky, and devoted his mind to
urination?
He glanced to the north, at terrain he had already crossed. One of Grandpa‘s
favorite moments in American history involved Lewis and Clark: the two explorers at the
headwaters of the Missouri River, looking back at the miles of ground they had already
covered — their pride tempered by mountains to the west. The continent refused to
match their preconceptions, said Grandpa. The difficult travel was yet to come.
A few lights were now visible. Not many, and miles between them. Dave tried to
spot Lexington‘s distant haze. At his back, in the northbound lanes, an eighteen wheeler
topped the rise and started to descend. A blast of wind followed its wake.
390
The stars were out in force, far more than Dave could remember seeing, at least in
a very long time. He leaned against the tailgate and laughed, struck by the absurdity of
his situation. In a few short hours, the teachers would arrive at MCA. For all they knew,
Mr. Kingman would appear on schedule as well. Instead, he was parked at the side of a
highway in the wrong state, admiring the night sky. What‘s more, out of seven billion
people on this entire planet, he was the only human who knew where he actually was.
He watched a dot of light approach, then split in two. Dave moved to the side of
the truck. He didn‘t want to attract notice. As the car passed, he ducked low. Its brake
lights flashed, and Dave‘s heart skipped a beat. But the driver hit the gas and disappeared
into the night. Dave laughed at himself once again. At this instinct to hide, as if caught
in the act. As if crouching by your truck at 4 AM was somehow less suspicious than
standing next to it.
Another car passed. Then a semi. Then silence. Dave walked into the center of
the road. It was deserted, the next set of lights a handful of miles away. He thought of
the lawn back at Shady Grove. He was so much younger then, five or six hours back.
He lay himself down on the interstate. The asphalt was hard and cold. It felt
rough on the back of his skull. Suppose he slammed his head backward as hard as he
could — could he knock himself out?
He tried not to think of the oil and fluids on the dirty road. About trucks that blew
tires, or cars that were driving the wrong way.
How fast could he get to the side? Less than three seconds, most likely. How
much ground could a semi cover in that span of time? One – one thousand. Two – one
thousand. Three . . .
391
Dave considered the speed of Olympic sprinters. In the hundred-meter dash, a
world-class athlete could travel thirty percent of his route in three seconds. Which was
incredible, the more that you thought about it. A lifetime of work, the legacy of your
athletic career, all settled in less than ten seconds — faster than most people cross a broad
street.
The view was incredible, well worth the risk: an unhampered shot of the sky.
Countless stars, and that luminescent brushstroke, the Milky Way.
It was the type of view that made you feel small. That inspired faith. The
promises of God felt rich and deep. Back in Midfield, where light pollution tainted the
night, Abraham‘s descendants had numbered in the thousands — the tens of thousands on
a clear evening. Out here, the patriarch was father to millions.
Dave thought about Isaac on the altar. He held himself rigid, imagining cords that
held the boy tight. God had decided to interrupt, calling his servant to stop. Change of
plans, said the angel. Abraham didn‘t need to sacrifice his child, after all. The Father
would kill His own Son instead.
Dave closed his eyes, trying to hear God‘s voice. He listened for traffic in either
direction. Like those scouts in the old time Westerns, who predicted the size of the
outlaw‘s gang by placing their ear on a rock.
The engine he heard was far too close for comfort. He scrambled to his feet and
dashed off the road. The horn of the onrushing car was loud and relentless. It resounded
against the rock walls.
A minute later, a semi passed. It downshifted on the opposite slope.
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Dave decided to get in the cab. His hands were shaking. Partly from the cold, but
more from reliving his reckless stunt.
He thought about turning around. If he didn‘t waste time, he could make it to
campus by 8:30. If he claimed that he overslept, everyone but Gordon would probably
believe the story. The day would be awful, teaching on zero hours sleep, but not an
impossible task. He‘d grab a power nap in his planning period, enough to sustain him till
evening.
Didn‘t that make the most sense? He was already making bad decisions. Wasn‘t
the best choice to bail? To abort before entering the mountains, where the risks would
only increase? Before he took a chance he couldn‘t overcome?
If he knew why he was heading for Shuckstack, it might be a different story. But
he didn‘t, not really. He was miles from home on a pointless journey. He wasn‘t Lewis
or Clark, looking for the Northwest Passage. He wasn‘t Frodo. They both carried rings,
but the hobbit accepted a mission. Shuckstack was not Mount Doom, and Dave had little
intention of tossing away a thousand dollar purchase. And he certainly wasn‘t Abraham,
whose marching orders came straight from the top. No, Dave was his own travel agent
— a role he now wished to resign.
Something was out there. Not an animal, though Dave could imagine a wildcat‘s
eyes in the dark. Not a person, though he feared that a cruiser would soon arrive,
responding to calls about a lunatic on the road. Not an alien or an angel or a demon,
393
though it wouldn‘t surprise him that locals had met all three. He was entering snakehandling country, after all.
No, what he sensed — this thing in the earth — he could only think of puerile
comparisons: that classic scene in Jurassic Park, when the ground shakes and the water
trembles, signs that a T-Rex is coming; or Ghostbusters, when the streets of Manhattan
quake from the steps of that giant demon, the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.
But this wasn‘t a poltergeist or a dinosaur or even a fifty-foot version of Darryl
Hannah. It was Tar Pits Jesus, still on his tail. No breaks, no calling off the hunt. It
never stopped tracking its prey.
Dave could sense its footsteps on the road: walking to Emmaus once again, and
determined to find company. The statue was travelling the highways and byways, the
back alleys and mountain trails. It called the homeless from their dumpsters and
impoverished from the night shift, the strippers from their clubs and meth addicts from
singlewides. It bypassed the churches and Christian schools. It was gathering the rabble
for a feast.
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Review Problem – Section V
Practical Mathematics – Mr. Kingman
Take-Home Question
Name: _____________________________
Suppose you are the campaign manager for a presidential candidate. You intend to
design a ―whistle-stop‖ tour, barnstorming the country by bus. You want to conserve your
resources and – if possible -- restrict your travels to two interstates. Find an interstate
map of the Unites States and a copy of the Electoral College, then answer the following
questions:
1. How many electoral votes are available in the states along I-75?
2. How many electoral votes are available in the states along I-70?
3. Could a candidate win the election using only the states along these two highways?
How many votes would he receive? What percentage of the Electoral College?
Bonus: Identify an additional north-south & east-west combination (such as I-75 and I-70)
that includes enough electoral votes to ensure a win for a presidential candidate.
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SECTION VI: SUNDAES & SNAPSHOTS
In which the teacher is covered in chocolate syrup.
Bethany in Tennessee — Samuel’s Dilemma — What About the Steps? — The Basement
Museum — FDR & Appalachian Spinsters — You Make Your Life Out of What You Are
Given — The Edible Olympics — Dave and Dave′ — Eggs in the Pants — Beth’s Letter
— A Disturbing Revelation — Captain Jack Sparrow & MCA — When Berries are not
Berries — The Synchronous Fireflies of East Tennessee — The Border — The Plateau —
The City of Giant Balls
LENGTH: Fourscore miles in southern Kentucky and eastern Tennessee. Over a decade
through the past.
HIGHLIGHTS: The Sundae Schoolteacher competition; trivia about vegetables fruits &
fireflies.
CAUTIONS: Wear clothes that can get messy.
TRAILHEAD: Blount County, Tennessee. Summer 2010.
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Blount County Snapshots
Summer 2010
§
The visit went better than Dave had expected. His mother was pleasant, a
gracious host. She didn‘t like Bethany. At the same time, she didn‘t appear to dislike
her. That‘s all he wanted: a friendly façade, a suspended sentence.
Grandpa was charming. His stories made people laugh, breaking the tension. For
Dave, who knew most of the tales by heart, the punch lines grew fresh as he watched
Beth react. She returned the favor to Samuel: sitting with his wife, talking to her like a
real person, acting like nothing was wrong.
Even Rachel was decent. Her presence had been a surprise, because Dave had
timed their visit to guarantee her absence. His strategy? Acclimate Mom and Grandpa
first — them to Beth, Bethany to them. Rachel was Phase Two, a complex study in
pressure and dynamics.
Last he heard, she had been planning a summer in Wyoming: the Wind River
Range or the Absarokas. But there she was, sitting cross-legged on the couch as Mom
led the visitors into the living room. ―Hey, bro.‖ The smile was friendly. The eyes sized
him up. These days, he felt judged whenever they met. Her presence was a spotlight that
swept across his life. She gathered his choices and splayed them on the dissection table,
eager to wield the knife.
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§
Grandpa and Grandma lived downstairs in the in-law suite. Like hobbits, Dave
thought, they had buried themselves in the earth.
The bedroom and bath were underground, but the yard sloped down to the back,
so their living space got plenty of sun. The entrance to the garage was step-free, and a
sliding-glass door opened onto the lower patio. Grandma‘s patio, they called it. Her
birdfeeders lined the rails.
Spring 1998
§
Laura agreed to return to Maryville. She would live with her parents and help
Dad with Mom. Her one condition? They would look for a new house. The old place in
town was too crowded, the rooms packed with furniture, keepsakes, and memories.
Grandpa resisted the change. He had lived on Redburn for forty-nine years.
We’ll scale back, he insisted. We managed to fit before.
Rachel wasn’t born yet, Mom said, and David was only a little boy. These days,
they required a lot more space.
§
Dave had already made his decision. He would stay in Ohio and live with his
dad. They hadn‘t told Grandpa. Not until we finalize the details, said Mom. If he thinks
that we’re inconvenienced — that he’s breaking the family apart — he’s going to balk at
the plan. There’s plenty of fight in those bones.
Like father, like daughter, Dave thought.
398
Two Years Earlier
§
Grandpa skirted the issue. He could not accept the official diagnosis, which
confirmed what his daughter had told him for years.
She’s always been a quiet woman, he argued. You know that. She lives in a world
all her own.
Laura had to concede the point. As long as she could remember, her mother had
been mired in the past: the departed brothers, the fathoms of water that buried their land.
Lily‘s rituals didn‘t help. They complicated the picture, rather than offering
clarity. She lived as a creature of habit: watch the feeders in the morning; tidy the house
until lunch (crackers, cheese, and a piece of fruit, the twelve o‘clock news for company).
Afternoons, she ran errands or went to the hairdresser. Once a month, she volunteered at
the library. TV dinners on Tuesday nights, pot roast on Thursdays. On Saturday, she and
Grandpa ate at the Maryville Seafood House, where she chose one of three dishes: the
baked catfish, the Carolina crab cakes, or the nightly special.
Her predictable orders grew into a family joke, but the laughter didn‘t faze her.
When David was young, Grandma‘s tongue was a match for anyone at the table. Her
response could be quick and deft: I prefer two or three quality options to a pedestrian
buffet.
Later — when her orders were stabs in the dark, not true decisions — they ought
to have paid more attention. They thought she was stubborn, clinging to rigid tastes, and
they failed to consider the alternative: the burden of choice, a world of selections she no
longer understood.
399
§
Don’t beat yourselves up, said the doctor. Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Looking
back, families would lament the clues they had missed, the symptoms that first began to
manifest.
Focus on the present, he advised. The rate of the disease might vary, but it would
only progress in a single direction. Talk to your wife while you can, he told Grandpa.
Cherish the next year or two. She will never know more than she does right now.
§
Lily was drowning. Samuel vowed to swim at her side, treading that bitter water.
He seldom left her alone — not after the day that she wandered their street, searching in
vain for their house. She had stepped out to get the mail and turned herself around. A
neighbor discovered her on their front porch, trying to open the door. So Grandpa stayed
close. He set down his hiking stick and lifted the trowel. Grandma watched him at work
in the soil, and the gardens and flowerbeds prospered under his care. She followed him
like a shadow. If he stepped inside to use the toilet, she waited outside the bathroom
door.
In the evening, he helped her down the back steps, and they made a grand tour of
the yard. They recited names: trees and plants, relatives and friends, places they‘d been
and places they‘d never see.
§
Samuel tried not to think of his own fading limbs. Every year, another hike
slipped beyond his power. The thirty-milers had long been pipe dreams, marathon loops
that he trekked in his youth. Even twenty-mile routes were now out of reach. The major
summits would soon join the list — LeConte, Sterling, Thunderhead — old friends that
400
he‘d never visit, not even a final farewell. One day, even Cucumber Gap would prove
too much. He tried not to dwell on the miles he lost, but each lap in the yard meant a
sacrifice, a hike that he‘d never complete.
On good days, he took Grandma to a nearby deli for chicken salad sandwiches.
On bad days, they stayed home, and she fell asleep to movies: Bette Davis in All About
Eve and Katharine Hepburn in The African Queen, the idols of her youth. They watched
each film dozens of times. Sam wanted Lily to select, and she always picked the same
titles. When she began to snore, he muted the volume and read in the glow from the
screen. He thought about the silent images and compared them to his wife‘s mind. Was
that how she saw the world? Streams of pictures, coherent at times, but without the
language that held them together.
How long would she last? Two years? Twelve? Twenty? The uncertainty was
dreadful, second only to memory when ranking the trials. They moved deeper into the
labyrinth. When the end finally came and he laid her to rest, would the maze be too
snarled to unravel? Was he doomed to slip under as well?
Spring 1998
§
He finally broke down and admitted the truth: a visit each week would snap the
monotony. It could make a huge difference. If Laura joined them for dinner, he
wouldn‘t need to supply both ends of the conversation. Once a month, if she sat with
Lily for the afternoon, he could wander a bookstore or meet an old colleague for a drink
or even drive out to the Foothills Parkway, where a paved trail climbed to the observation
deck on Look Rock.
401
You’ll see us more often than that, said Mom. If I move back to Tennessee, we’re
all going to live together.
That isn’t necessary, he said. It’s too big a sacrifice to ask.
For which of them? Dave wondered. Father? Daughter? Both?
§
It was bound to happen, Mom told her son. It might as well be now. Who else
could look after the pair?
Her mother wasn‘t the problem. Grandma had slipped beyond help. All they
could do now was simplify her life. The real worry was Grandpa. As his wife became
ill, he added routines to her day: a permanent schedule; the backyard tours; a fixed décor,
the furniture practically nailed in place. He adopted these habits for Lily, keeping her
days predictable. But they’re really for him, Mom claimed. The ritual hides the
symptoms. Grandma followed the patterns, and it masked how sick she actually was.
Each routine became part of Samuel‘s life as well. Right now, at the age he needs
to keep mind and body alert — to avoid getting stagnant. His daughter‘s presence would
disrupt the routine and force these habits to vary. I need him to stay strong. Mom first,
then Dad. I can’t take care of them both, not at the same time.
§
Dave considered his mother‘s health: a full-time job at the hospital, a slate of
responsibilities at home. Back in Hocking County, a similar strain had worn Laura down
to a nub. Now she was two decades older. Knots of arthritis were growing in her
knuckles. Her migraines were more and more frequent.
402
Rachel could help, but Mom would limit her duties. She felt guilt about forcing
her daughter to move. Not that Dave‘s sister complained. If anything, she was relieved
to break free of Midfield‘s grasp. Besides, this opening stage was not the concern. Even
at seventy, Grandpa could handle most physical tasks. The problem would come in the
future — a decade down the road — when his body started to fail. Rachel would be
gone, and Mom would be left to care for her parents alone.
Turnabout was fair play. Samuel had nurtured a helpless infant, chased after the
reckless tomboy, and argued with a defiant teen. His own decline would reverse the
sequence: Mom would fight with her dad about what he could no longer do; she would
fret when he grabbed the keys; and she‘d tend to his basic needs as he lost that last ability
to function. When Mom finished her task, would her own life be spent? As she finally
relaxed, would years of exhaustion wash over her like a flood? Dave already knew his
charge: step forward, open his arms, and envelop her weakness with strength.
§
Samuel was divided. He welcomed his daughter‘s arrival, but he resisted the
move that she demanded. She tried to convince him on practical grounds. From the new
house, my daily commute will be shorter.
Not in miles, he said.
In minutes. She mentioned the lights in town, the traffic near the college.
Grandma will be closer to the hospital.
§
Mom tried to lure him with aesthetics: On clear days, you can see Chilhowee
Mountain from the deck.
403
Pure torture, he said. Staring at mountains he couldn‘t visit.
But you could. That’s one of the reasons I’m moving.
§
She tried to appeal to love: Do it for Mom. She’ll be happier in the new place.
Her father disagreed. Lily was used to the house. A change would only upset
her.
She’ll have to be moved, sooner or later. Why not now, when she still has the
chance to adjust?
When he spoke, the answer was soft: I’m afraid it’s too late for that.
§
Laura switched to a negative campaign. She critiqued the old house on Redburn,
which needed both upgrades and repairs. Wouldn‘t that disturb Lily? All of those
workers, the chaos of construction?
Grandpa challenged her analysis. She was exaggerating, trying to make a point,
and he bristled at the critique. It suggested he didn‘t take care of his property. Sam
Walker believed in stewardship. It was a central tenet of his life: whatever you were
entrusted with — a house, land, a job, marriage, a title or position, a friendship — you
were called to preserve its quality. If possible, you should leave it in better condition
than you found it. Which led to his central complaint about aging: he tried to stay
healthy, but the body sabotaged his efforts, growing weaker by the year.
There is nothing wrong with that house, Grandpa said. I’ve taken good care of it.
In addition to the regular maintenance, he did plenty of work that increased its value —
especially the gardens and flowers, the features that grew after Grandma got sick. A
404
local paper had focused on his efforts, and a tour of homes had asked to visit their yard.
But visitors upset Lily. She would request to go home, even though she was already
there. To her, being home meant being left alone.
§
What about the steps? Laura asked.
What about them? Her father‘s voice was hesitant, and she knew that she‘d
touched on the fulcrum, the key to prying him off Redburn. The old house had too many
steps and stairwells. You climbed the front entrance and descended out back. The
washer and dryer were in the basement, and the bedrooms were all on the second floor.
Lily could manage each flight, but the going was slow. She would hesitate, unsure about
placing each foot, and Grandpa would steady her balance.
Mom drove the point home: pretty soon, they‘d have trouble getting Grandma
down from the bedroom, let alone to the gardens and the car. She avoided the harder
questions. What if her mother awoke in the night, confused where she was, and reached
the stairwell before Samuel noticed? What if the house caught on fire?
§
Dave respected her restraint. Grandpa was destined to lose, but Mom needed her
father to fight — to wage an honorable retreat and know that he tried to resist, that he
didn‘t abandon their house. He had struggled with impotence, watching his wife in the
throes of disease. A body he loved was being attacked, yet he could not protect it. The
least he could do was defend their home.
Their marriage had never been easy. If the columns were totaled, the devotion he
offered would eclipse the love in her response. But that would be missing the point, he‘d
405
claim. In the joint checking account of marriage, your contributions would seldom
balance. Like the widow and her mite, you gave what you had to offer. You could never
withhold. If you did, you lost the entire investment.
Besides, none of that mattered anymore. Everything changed once Lily got sick.
Those days that they fought, waging their silent battles? The months that each gazed at
the other‘s heart, failing to understand? All of those years grew better and brighter,
remembered in light of events to come. In time, he only held on to the joy. Their
marriage provided the arc of his life. Everything else became subplot.
The burden of memory fell on his shoulders: he carried the past for them both. It
was all for her, the fight and the surrender. He bore them both in Lily‘s honor.
§
Mom watched her father and knew that his spirit endured. The two of them had
always sparred. It was the foundation of their relationship: part dance, part duel, all
Walker.
She wanted a neutral field. Living with her parents would be difficult enough. In
an unfamiliar space, she could try to establish new rules. On Redburn, in the house she
was raised, she would always be a child.
Summer 1998
§
The actual move went smoothly enough. As Mom had predicted, Grandpa
threated to bail when he learned that David wasn‘t coming. But they had already
committed to the purchase. He would sacrifice a down payment, but he refused to go
back on his word.
406
The new house wasn‘t actually new. The split-level structure was decades old,
the subdivision built when Laura was still in high school. Grandpa scoffed at its poor
construction. The houses on Redburn would still be standing, long after this upstart had
been condemned.
Walk around it seven times, his daughter proposed. At the end of your parade,
blow the trumpet as loud as you can. If the walls start to crumble, we’ll move back to
town.
The walls would certainly crumble, he said. From moisture and wood rot, not
Israel‘s shout.
§
Samuel sketched plans for the yard: flowerbeds near the patio, and a raised garden
out back, where veggies would thrive in the sunlight. He grumbled about the uneven
ground and its lack of mature trees. The old woods had been raped by bulldozers and
bush hogs.
Mom claimed he was secretly excited, this landscape to bend to his will.
Like Prospero, Dave observed.
I don’t care who he’s like, as long as he’s happy.
§
The top floor had bedrooms for Mom and Rachel, plus a guest room for David‘s
visits. The central level contained the main kitchen, dining room, and the primary living
space. It offered a buffer zone, a no-man‘s land between generations.
They treated the basement apartment as a separate residence, knocking as they
entered on ―visits‖ downstairs. Grandpa‘s décor reinforced this effect. He plastered the
407
walls with photographs, maps, and newspaper articles about East Tennessee. His name
graced the byline on several of the yellowed clippings. Hiking photos were pieced
together in clusters, like pictures and evidence on a detective‘s wall, as if Samuel were
solving the mystery of his life. David appeared in more than a few: standing on a rock at
Charlie‘s Bunion; covered in mist from Hen Wallow Falls; wading across Abrams Creek.
Each week brought a new display, another square foot of coverage. For years,
Sam had refused to alter the house on Redburn. Now, he was making up for lost time.
His new habitat was in constant flux.
It’s like walking into a museum, Mom said. You spend hours down there, just
reading the walls.
She complained to her father‘s face, accusing him of sabotage. He was trying to
ruin the paint and prove his argument about the house. But everyone knew she was
pleased. He was claiming the space for himself.
Grandpa was defiant. When he and Lily were finally gone, his daughter could gut
the rooms and purge them from memory. If she studied his latest installation, he claimed
she was simply looking for damage — this pesky landlord who never stopped hunting for
violations. In other words, she was acting like his parent.
§
Do you remember the Walker sisters? Grandpa pointed to a photo on the wall. In
the picture, a young boy was standing near the stone chimney of a wooden cabin.
Beneath the shot was a printed caption: ―David / Walker Sisters Cabin / Summer 1989.‖
The Walker sisters were not related to Samuel‘s Walkers. They were simply his
heroes. Their grandparents had crossed Little Briar Gap from Tuckalechee Cove in the
408
middle of the 19th century. The land they obtained would remain in the clan for over a
hundred years. They covered its acres with orchards and gardens and flowers and
buildings and livestock. The family‘s address stayed constant; their lives most certainly
did not. Years before the sisters were born, their father had almost perished in a
Confederate prison; only the pumpkins of a local farmer kept him from salvation. Later,
they witnessed the watersheds ravished by the Little River Lumber Company. The
ground would shake as the massive chestnuts fell — those giants that five sisters would
attempt to circle, all holding hands, and still not complete the ring. Two of them lost
fiancés in accidents. One never recovered from the shock.
Eleven siblings in all, and each one survived to become an adult. A sign of their
mother‘s remarkable skill, according to Grandpa. But the spinsters‘ story charmed him
the most. In the 1930s, the government started to purchase land for a national park.
Other households accepted the federal offer and moved away, but the sisters refused to
sell out. They were determined to live out their days on the property.
The stalemate lasted until 1940. Just imagine it, Grandpa said. Within five years,
our nation would harness the power of the atom. Meanwhile, down in the hills of
Tennessee, five aging women resisted its might. According to credible rumors, President
Roosevelt had slipped away from the park‘s dedication to offer his personal appeal.
Stalin was outmatched at Yalta, joked Grandpa. FDR learned to barter from
Appalachian spinsters.
In the end, they got what they wanted most: a lifetime lease. They sold the land
but remained on the property. They even became a park attraction. Tourists would hike
along Little Briar Creek and travel back in time. In 1946, a story in The Saturday
409
Evening Post made them national celebrities. Grandpa had found a copy of the article
and hung it on the wall, along with his own pictures of the cabin. He first toured the
homestead in the early 1950s, hoping to write a follow-up story. Only Margaret and
Louisa were still alive, 83 and 71 years old. They were slowing down, and he decided
against the piece. They didn’t need a fresh stream of visitors, he explained. They needed
to rest. Their descriptions and memories were vivid: the range of produce, the varieties
of roses. The gardens had lost their splendor, but hints still remained. They spoke with
love about the ancestors who built their home, the family that had preceded them to
glory. He was enchanted. They were queens, he said. Queens of the Little Briar. He
returned once a year and always brought fresh flowers. Louisa died in the 1960s, the last
of the sisters, but he continued to make the pilgrimage. The Park Service maintained the
buildings, and he once took David to explore them. Their walls are a constant reminder,
he explained, laying his hand on a beam. You make your life out of what you are given.
§
I was thinking of them, you know, Grandpa said.
Pardon? It was Dave‘s first trip to the downstairs museum; he was feeling a
touch overwhelmed. Mom‘s descriptions had been accurate, but they failed to convey the
scope: the sheer number of exhibits, the course of the life that they mapped.
The Walker sisters. I was thinking about their cabin walls, how newspapers and
pictures had covered the boards, both decoration and insulation, and decided to follow
their lead.
Dave nodded. He recalled those empty, shadow-filled rooms: the streaks of light
between planks, and scraps of paper that stuck to the wood.
410
Their quarters had been rustic, void of modern luxury, but cozy enough for the
sisters. I think about them crowded together, said Grandpa. About fireplace ash and
winter drafts, muddy shoes and hard spring rain. It shuts my trap, whenever I start to
grumble.
Dave believed the explanation. But something hid within Grandpa‘s tribute, a
vein of regret. The Walker sisters had clung to their land, while Redburn had slipped
from his grasp. He had compared their lives and knew that his was lacking. If the
crowded walls were a memorial, they also conceded defeat.
§
Grandpa longed for his former house. When it sold, he claimed to understand his
wife: all those decades, pining for land she could never visit. There were differences, of
course. He had agreed to the move, and he could still drive through the old
neighborhood. According to Mom, his ―errands‖ took suspiciously long. Such an option
was impossible for Lily. She had no say in her displacement. In the early 1940s, the
MacAllen farm had been claimed by the US Army Corps of Engineers. There was no
great showdown with FDR, no article in The Saturday Evening Post. The fields she
walked as a child had disappeared, their contours now silent and dark, deep beneath
Watts Bar Lake.
§
Grandpa wanted to interview the potential owners. What do you expect? Mom
asked. That you’ll give them a tour of the yard, explaining the best way to garden?
Why not? Why would they purchase the land if they didn‘t expect to tend it?
They must have approved of his work.
411
§
A month or two after the sale, a plastic bag was blowing across the old yard.
Grandpa parked the car and stepped outside to grab it, but it slid out of reach and lodged
beneath a bush. He returned home with mud on his hands and knees.
They’re going to call the police, Mom said. They’ll charge you with stalking.
I’m not stalking anyone. I was picking up litter.
On another person’s property, she said. Beneath their bushes. That’s
trespassing.
I worked that land for years. I can never trespass there.
§
The new owner was trimming the hedges wrong. Grandpa wanted to write him a
letter and offer some advice.
Enough is enough, Mom said. You have to stop torturing yourself. They were
bound to make changes he didn‘t like. They’ve got the same freedom that you enjoy, out
back in the garden and downstairs in your apartment.
Down in my cell, you mean?
Mom ignored the remark. What if they buy a new mailbox? What if they paint the
shutters, or plant marigolds but not hydrangeas? What if they prune the trees? Grandpa
sucked in his breath, and she risked a final blasphemy: What if they cut down the maple?
I’ll have them arrested, he said.
§
Laura had troubles as well. Rachel provided updates on the phone. Mom’s
lonely, she said.
412
Their mother seldom made intimate friends. Even so, she left more acquaintances
in Midfield than she gained in Tennessee. Her new colleagues were pleasant, but they
didn‘t step out of their way to include her, not the way she‘d been welcomed in the past.
Back then, I was young and fresh. Most of the doctors had a crush on me. Not
anymore. No one gets roused by a middle-aged nurse.
Rachel didn‘t believe such claims. Their mother was growing older, but she still
held her own on the hospital catwalk. There was something else, something deeper than
friendship or flirtation. I think that she misses your dad.
§
The longer he considered it, the more sense the observation made. After their
midnight run from Mr. Pete, David‘s parents constructed a patchwork friendship. They
talked to each other on weekends, handing their son back and forth. MCA brought them
together as well. They attended his soccer games, award banquets, and science fairs. If
Mom was accompanied by friends, Dad usually kept his distance. When she was alone,
he dared to sit beside her. It was often surreal for David, looking into the stands at a
track meet: the two of them cheering his name, this glimpse of an alternate life.
There wasn‘t romance, simply decency and respect. At first, their son hoped that
something might develop. After all, Dad had proved so generous and loyal. He rose to
the occasion, helping this woman who once broke his heart. After they returned to
Midfield, Mom couldn‘t find work for six months. Dave never learned how they paid the
bills, but he could guess.
Nothing happened. Charles gave them the space to recover and adjust. In time,
they all settled down to a civil routine.
413
The arrangement was odd. Mom dated other men — Mr. Pitts, for example —
but she and Dad would parent as a team. They even fooled teachers on occasion. After a
parent-teacher conference, Mrs. Cross had apologized to David. For some reason, she
thought that his parents were divorced; but that clearly wasn‘t the case.
§
Dad went on dates of his own: a dinner here, a movie there. Nothing serious.
One time, Mom asked if he was seeing anyone — a casual inquiry, the way she might ask
where a friend had bought shoes.
Dad‘s response was quiet. He didn‘t blush, but his son could sense pain in his
tone. You know better than that, he said.
Mom didn‘t speak. Sorrow lapped at the brim of her sad, sad smile. She touched
Charles on the arm, squeezed once, and quickly let go.
§
Thus it made sense — in a strange, unconventional way — that Laura missed
seeing Dave‘s father. Their encounters were brief, but long enough to touch his scars and
know that he survived. She hadn‘t ruined his life, after all. Not completely, at least. He
was damaged but alive: still solid, still beautiful, at least to the few who glanced at his
heart.
Their meetings were causal. Yet in those fleeting moments, making small talk
with her former husband, she stood in the presence of love.
§
Her own father loved her, of course. But he had been starved of attention for
years, and his appetite was voracious. Such affection did not nourish: it consumed.
414
She arrived home from work, exhausted, and he sought out her company —
another patient with his finger on the call button. She needed a circle of quiet, a space to
be left alone, but he overlooked her weary frame. He was ready to give his report: the
minutiae of Grandma‘s day. Signs that he dismissed for years, now recounted in
excruciating detail.
§
Rachel was in her room. The stereo pulsed through the door, and the telephone
crackled with life. Laura failed to spot her own reflection.
Mom longed to knock and enter that den, to nest on the bed and unburden her
heart. But she didn‘t. Her daughter had suffered enough. Rachel‘s years at MCA had
not been pleasant. She deserved a fresh start: a new school, new friends, and no one to
ask why her brother had a father but she didn‘t. David was not around, making things
worse, cutting her heart with answers he gave to his friends.
Laura offered her child space. Not that anything would have changed, had she
cracked the door and listened to Rachel laugh, the pitch rising and falling and dancing
into the phone. We seldom hear ourselves speak. A woman‘s voice is recorded in time.
When it gets played back a generation later, on the instrument of her daughter‘s tongue,
she does not recognize the song.
§
Patients, parents, daughter. She carried the weight of them all. Even her son and
his father, the lives beyond her reach.
Had the sacrifice been worth it? Leading Rachel to this strange land, leaving
David and Charles behind. Dragging Samuel to a house where he did not want to be.
415
Had it really been necessary? Most of the help that she offered, her father refused to
take. The rest he accepted with shame.
Doubt circled like a vulture. When they talked on the phone, Dave could sense it
within her voice. Mom would pretend to be enthused, describing a trivial feature in her
new life. They both understood the façade. Had it been worth it? She tried to convince
her son. She longed to believe it herself.
§
In the end, the question was irrelevant. Two years after the move, Grandpa
slipped and fell on the upper reaches of the Middle Prong. The damage to his leg was
severe. The next month, a rogue infection tore through the weakened flesh and finished
the ruin. He lost everything below the right knee, and the entire debate was rendered
moot.
Summer 2010
§
Grandma sat on the couch, picking at a stain on her sweater sleeve. Grandpa was
resting in the easy chair. His eyes were closed. Reading glasses sat on a tray table, near
an empty plate and a book by Wilma Dykeman.
David and Beth were quiet, watching their elder at rest. As a child, he would try
to catch Grandpa off-guard. He‘d sneak into a room, inching closer and closer. At the
last possible moment — sometimes, without even turning to look — his target would
break the silence: ―Hunting for trouble, soldier?‖ Not today. He stirred for a moment,
and his breathing fell back into rhythm.
416
Dave‘s gaze wandered down the right leg, where the trouser lay unnaturally flat.
―Hey, Grandpa,‖ he whispered.
The man woke with a start. His eyes shot straight to Grandma and the couch.
When he saw she was fine, he relaxed and smiled at the visitors. ―They‘ll let anyone into
the state these days.‖ He pulled a lever on the recliner and reached for his cane.
―You don‘t have to get up, Mr. Walker,‖ said Bethany.
―Call me Samuel. It makes me feel old, young gals like you saying Mr. Walker.‖
He tried to straighten his back. ―Besides, I owe this guy something.‖ Grandpa had
shrunk in recent years, but the bear hug was solid. ―Good to see you, my boy,‖ he
whispered.
His attention turned to Beth, a gaze steady and kind. His verdict was prefaced by
a low, approving whistle. ―She‘s a Buckeye, all right. I danced with her kind, back in
the day.‖ The language was neutral. The praise derived from the tone.
Its impact was striking. Bethany blossomed in response. Her traveling outfit was
nothing special, a lime MCA polo and a knee-length, denim skirt (more sanitary than
jeans in a public toilet, she claimed). Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, all
but a straight line of bangs that dropped to her eyebrows. She was trying to grow them
out. Dave had seen her that way before, probably dozens of times. Yet, in that moment,
she was almost beautiful. She beamed with gratitude, which softened her features and
further heightened the effect.
The gardener‘s touch, thought Dave. It worked on both flowers and women.
417
Grandpa sat next to Grandma on the couch. He gathered his wife‘s hands and
covered them with his own. ―We have company, my dear.‖ He nodded at Dave. ―You
recognize this one, of course.‖
―Hello, Grandma.‖ Dave waved but didn‘t approach. ―It‘s me, David — your
grandson.‖
She stared at him for a moment, as if waiting for a cue. ―Hello,‖ she answered.
―Your Grandma says Hello.‖
Dave wasn‘t upset. He couldn‘t remember the last time she recognized him.
―And this charming young lady — who drove all the way down from Ohio to
meet you — this is his special friend Bethany.‖
Beth knelt by the couch, trying to catch Grandma‘s stare. ―It‘s a pleasure to meet
you, Mrs. Walker.‖
―Lily,‖ said Grandpa.
―It‘s a pleasure to meet you, Lily. You have such a lovely name.‖
―Doesn‘t she?‖ He kissed his wife on the cheek, but she didn‘t respond.
Grandpa braced himself and rose from the couch with a grunt. Beth reached out
to steady him, but he waved off the help. ―I‘m not as frail as I look. Not yet, at least.‖
He stood tall, grinned, and struck his right shin with the cane. The fabric muffled the
blow, but the knock on the prosthetic rod was harsh and unmistakable. ―Didn‘t my
grandson tell you? I‘m bionic.‖
§
That evening, the six of them ate on Grandma‘s patio: barbeque chicken
sandwiches and sliced tomatoes from Grandpa‘s garden. Beth added sugar to her tea,
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unaware of how sweet it already was. Nobody warned her, and they laughed at her
shocked expression when she took a sip. ―Appalachian hazing,‖ said Grandpa. ―SOP,
East Tennessee.‖
The evening was warm, but the upper deck provided shade. A breeze from a fan
kept the insects at bay.
Beth was explaining how she and David met. According to her version of the
tale, they got together as ice cream sundaes. ―Not over sundaes,‖ she emphasized. ―As
sundaes. Isn‘t that like him, trying to do things his own way?‖
―Trying to do things the hard way, if you ask me,‖ said Grandpa. A movement
caught their attention. Grandma‘s hand was shaking, pointing at her grandson‘s glass.
―What do you want, darling?‖ her husband asked.
―What . . does . . he have?‖
―Sweet tea, same as you. Almost as sweet as you, but not quite.‖ He winked at
the rest of the group. Lily‘s own drink was still half-full, and Grandpa handed her the
cup. She refused to take it. ―Not thirsty?‖ he said.
―No.‖ The frustration in her voice was clear. The anger, even.
The prospect would always astonish Dave. It horrified him, actually. The remote
chance that deep in a recess of her mind, the Alamo of the cerebellum, a band of synapses
had refused to surrender. They continued to fire, making their final stand.
The moment passed. Grandma looked down at her sweater and fussed at the
buttons.
―Are you hot?‖ Grandpa asked. ―Would you like us to take off your sweater?‖
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―That‘s a lovely twin set you‘re wearing,‖ Beth said.
Neither received a response.
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Meeting as Sundaes
They met as sundaes. It was Bethany‘s standard line when asked about their
relationship. It happened to be a lie.
She was referring to the Edible Olympics, back in the spring of 2007, when she
and Dave had both been participants — victims, really — in the Sundae Schoolteacher
competition. They were seated in kiddie pools in the center of the MCA gymnasium,
covered in melting ice cream and a potpourri of sticky toppings. Each spotted the other‘s
predicament: they grinned together and laughed. That laughter led to friendship, the
friendship to flirtation — the infamous Year of Cold Feet. In the fall of 2009, Dave
stammered out his invitation to the Homecoming banquet.
But they had met even earlier, in August 2005, when Bethany first moved to
Midfield. Dave was only beginning his second full year at MCA, though he strode the
halls like a veteran, given the years that he paced them as student. The two of them
seldom talked. Beth worked in the Language Arts Department, and they didn‘t cross
paths on a daily basis.
At the time, Dave had his eye fixed on a different first-year teacher: Stephanie
Baker, a Cedarville grad who taught Freshman English. He spent that entire fall in
strategic flirtations, building the nerve to ask her on a date. Then she returned from
Christmas break with a diamond on her finger. Her college sweetheart had finally
proposed. Dave was the first male teacher she told the good news. After all, he had been
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such an encouragement that first semester, making sure she felt welcome at MCA. He
went to her room less often in the spring. When invitations were mailed, he didn‘t
survive the final cut.
Dave didn‘t think much of Bethany at first — this earnest and enthusiastic
teacher, a year or two older than him, who had transferred to MCA from a Christian
school near Cleveland. She didn‘t capture his imagination. So her story contained a
grain of truth: they didn‘t meet as sundaes, yet that laugh was a turning point, the first
time they actually noticed one another.
The moment was surrounded by mayhem. Spiritual enlightenment in the guise of
sloppy, sticky anarchy. Theater of the Biblically absurd. It was sponsored by the
sophomore class, and Dave happened to be their advisor. So he was technically
responsible for the event, not to mention the havoc in its wake, and the debacle led to his
opening stint on Stratham‘s list of mischief-makers. But Dave blamed the principal for
actually approving the outrageous proposal. When the officers asked him to endorse
their application, Dave signed with the firm conviction that his boss would soundly reject
it.
In other words, Bethany‘s central premise was incorrect. The spectacle was never
an elaborate scheme to draw the two of them together. According to her tale, Dave had
arranged the entire fête to gawk at her slathered in chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and
gallons of marshmallow goo. That simply wasn‘t the case.
Dave never recalled accepting the role. His second year, when the staff directory
was circulated, he was simply listed as the sophomore class advisor. At MCA, whether
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you sought them or not, your extracurricular duties could multiply like Jacob‘s children.
Did you mention a hobby in a casual conversation? Listen politely to a student‘s crazy
scheme? The next time you passed the bulletin board, a crowd would be huddled around
a sign-up sheet — your name printed in bold at the top.
It wasn‘t just MCA. Things happened like that in Dave‘s life. He would be
strolling along, whistling to himself — a bit melancholy, but fine, really — when all of a
sudden: Wham! He was studying education . . . teaching at MCA . . . waging a Cold War
against his sister . . . dating Bethany . . . driving through Kentucky in the middle of the
night. Nothing that involved an emphatic choice, simply hundreds of tiny decisions, most
of them unnoticed at the time — one step after another. Like a hiker, he thought. Like
Bunyan’s Pilgrim. Every so often, he straightened his back and glanced up from his
shuffling feet. He examined the place where he stood: the Palace Beautiful or Doubting
Castle, the Evangelist‘s House or the Slough of Despond. Wherever it was, he was
usually surprised.
At least he got the right class. The other grades could be major headaches. The
Freshman officers needed plenty of hand-holding, not to mention a chauffeur. Seniors
wanted to leave with a major statement. But the Juniors had it the worst: the task of
planning and hosting the Spring Banquet, MCA‘s version of prom. Their advisor retired
the year that Bethany arrived. When no one stepped forward to claim the position, she
volunteered . . . naturally. Now, when she returned from her summer missions trip, she
spent the remainder of her break on tours of the banquet rooms and fellowship halls in a
tri-county region. In the future, Dave would begin to suspect her motives. After all,
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these sites could double as reception venues. Why else would she visit so many, if not
making a preemptive strike on her wedding preparations? Surely not for the awkward
teens in their gaudy corsages and ill-fitting cummerbunds, the students who picked at
their Chicken Kiev. They didn‘t notice the hours of effort, the elaborate centerpieces and
keepsakes. No, they would focus on complaints: the rules about hemlines, the dancing
ban, and the last-minute edict about bare shoulders — the chaperones posted near the
entrance, armed with shawls and eager to swaddle the teenage flesh.
The Sophomores were all right. The best draw, if you had to be saddled with a
class. He ―supervised‖ their plans for Spirit Week: in other words, he checked the float
for deathtraps and sanitized the class skit, cutting the scenes with cross-dressing and beer.
He might surface at fundraisers for an hour or two, enough time to wash a few cars and
commandeer the hose. Two afternoons a month, he worked late in his room as the
officers held their formal meetings. At first he tried to participate, but nobody talked
when he got involved. They listened politely to his suggestions, yet they never
responded, as if their feedback might be graded. So he took to his desk and eavesdropped
while checking homework. Their conversation topics were anything but risqué: Monty
Python, the Cartoon Network, MCA athletics, and stale, outdated gossip. Natalie Stewart
recorded the official minutes. One week, they only contained four lines:
Battlestar Galactica?
Inspector Gadget Moses.
Gangsta Church Throwdown.
The Jesus mobile.
That night, he tried to unravel the mystery. Was the Jesus mobile a high-tech car for sinbusting vigilantes? Or was it an ornament for your baby‘s room, suspended above the
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devout child‘s crib — Christ in the center and the twelve disciples hanging from wires,
slowly turning in concentric circles?
Given each meeting‘s scattered focus, Dave wasn‘t concerned that January
afternoon. Not as he listened to their ridiculous plans, the nonsense that would alter the
course of his life. Seth Collins, the class president, was describing a game with raw eggs
in a flexible plastic tube. For some foolhardy reason — Dave didn‘t catch why — two
volunteers would blow on each end. The first to breathe would get egg in the face. Seth
waved to the front. ―Mr. Kingman, we‘ve got a great idea for a special assembly!‖
―Sounds like it. Sounds special, that‘s for sure.‖
―Wait,‖ said Natalie. ―What happens if they breathe at the same time?‖
―Whoever starts blowing again wins, and the other guy—‖ Seth tossed a CapriSun at Ryan Oswald‘s chest. ―Splat!‖
―Hey! That still had juice in it!‖ Ryan yelled. ―You got crap all over my shirt!‖
A moment of silence followed. Dave kept his head low, but he sensed the
hesitant glance. Ryan was braced for his teacher‘s censure, a rebuke for the borderline
profanity. Dave suppressed an impish response — ―Shit happens‖ — and chose to ignore
the exchange.
Ryan dabbed at his shirt. ―That‘s gonna stain,‖ he whispered.
―Be glad it‘s not egg,‖ Seth answered.
―Egg doesn‘t stain, you jerkface.‖
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At least their messes were washable. Their mischief was innocent enough:
forking a teacher‘s yard or sealing a locker with saran wrap. A scavenger hunt at the
Dollar General or TJ Maxx. Most of the kids were a few grades behind when it came
down to real, ball-busting sin. In a few years, they‘d fill that tubing with beer, not eggs.
Why rush them now?
Who was he kidding? Dave had never chugged a beer in his life — not in college,
and certainly not in high school. He had never run naked down a campus lawn, never
slurped Jell-O shots from a bartender‘s abs. As for carnal behavior? A few of his
students had far more experience than him. At least he suspected they did. It was hard to
know for certain. The AP sinners were careful. A Friday night bonfire with cases of
Natty Light? Cover your tracks with a Saturday morning service project. And Dave?
His teenage years had been spent in living rooms and dorms, watching movies and
playing video games. Laughing with friends, planning stunts they would never attempt.
The longing swept over him like a wave, a desire to relive those awkward years.
To nudge his life by a single degree — a choice here or there — and see how its course
might shift. Would there be additional photos in his albums? Memories of nights when
cameras weren‘t allowed? After the new adventures, would he continue to settle for a
chalkboard? No matter which road he travelled, was he destined to land in the classroom,
surrounded by inspirational posters of rock climbers and professional athletes? A
running back was blasting through the defensive line. The caption challenged the
students: ―Push Hard! The Best Gains Are Often The Toughest!‖ Dave grimaced. His
pupils knew far more algebra than the millionaire featured in the photo.
Was destiny inevitable?
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What a stupid question, he thought. If it wasn‘t inevitable, it wouldn‘t be destiny.
He smiled. Now that was an asinine slogan. Slap that puppy on a photo of skydiving
Granny? A skydiving puppy, even? You‘d have a best-selling poster in a heartbeat.
If he had accepted Kevin‘s offer, that Spring Break trip to the Ozarks. . . . If he‘d
blown off class to attend that Barenaked Ladies concert. . . . If he‘d asked the girl in
Religion 1102 on a study date. . . . If he auditioned for that play, registered for the
advanced Chemistry course, or read that brochure on semesters abroad. . . . If any of that,
what then?
He and his friends had lived epic lives. At least they believed they did, rocking
out to the Counting Crows at 2 AM in bold defiance of the RD‘s solemn warning. They
dared one another to bouts of Stupid, a barefoot contest in which you and an opponent
stood several yards apart and tossed golf balls at one another‘s toes. If he flinched, you
got to throw overhand. The name fit, both the game and a person who played more than
once.
Was that all? When he tried to recall the best years of his life, why was there
little but crowded cars and dollar movies, late-night Slurpee runs and study breaks at
Denny‘s? Was that all he had? Key lime pie, bottomless pots of coffee, and Moons Over
My Hammy? There must have been more excitement. Why else did he long to turn back
the clock? Did he simply want a second chance, a shot at gathering some real stories?
Legends that could entertain his grandchildren at a campfire, when they begged him to
say the craziest thing that he‘d ever done. You needed two or three tales to skip, things
that you swear you‘ll never tell the kids. A father maintains a strategic reserve,
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ammunition for moments that children are frantic, convinced that they‘ve ruined their
lives. A bank of memories for easy withdrawal. You look them in the eye: ―That‘s
pretty bad, son. Still, it could be worse. Let me tell you about the time. . . .‖
But he‘d never burned a barn to the ground. Never spent a night running from
campus police. Never stranded himself on a water tower or a highway billboard,
uncertain how to get down. Not one single time had he come to his senses on the wrong
side of the Maumee River, wondering what he had done or how he got there, soaked and
confused and wearing a single bowling shoe. There was no local site he could pass with
his daughter and casually remark, ―See that place? One time, I about broke my neck,
landing a back-flip in my boxers. Stupid.‖
―So we‘ve got five events for sure.‖
Dave was impressed. They had focused on the Edible Olympics for over a month.
A full slate of games was complete, but they hadn‘t addressed the harder challenge: a
compelling reason for Stratham to schedule a special assembly, especially when its most
likely outcome was a giant, sugary mess.
―What about the Tug-of-War?‖
―Where could we hold it? We can‘t dig a pit in the gym.‖
If Seth was the idea man, then Natalie‘s gift involved challenging his plans. They
made an effective team. She forced him to examine the logistics and nudged the dream
toward reality. Ryan and John were simply their minions.
―What about the practice fields?‖
―Coach Norris would never allow it.‖
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―They won‘t let us go outside — not in March. The audience would be too cold
to pay attention, and the ground might still be frozen.‖
―We‘re filling the pit with Jell-O, right?‖
―How can we make enough Jell-O to fill a pit? Don‘t you have to refrigerate it?‖
―Not if we‘re outside in March.‖
―Only if you want to eat it.‖
―If you fall in the pit, can you open your mouth? How are people going to
breathe?‖
―It‘s not going to be deep.‖
―But you can drown in a bathtub, I thought.‖
―Only if you‘re a baby.‖
―Grandmas can drown.‖
―Ok. Babies and Grandmas are disqualified.‖
―What if someone gets food poisoning? We have to be careful, especially with
the eggs. We don‘t need anyone to vomit.‖
Seth pretended to throw up on Natalie.
―That‘s gross,‖ she said. ―I‘m serious. Principal Stratham would not call that
EDIFYING.‖
The boys laughed at her joke. Scientists might divide the world into animal,
vegetable, and mineral. Stratham only required two categories: edifying & non-edifying.
―Hey, Mr. Kingman,‖ Seth yelled. ―You can‘t get food poisoning from Jell-O,
can you?‖
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Natalie checked her notes from a previous meeting. ―I thought we decided on
chocolate pudding?‖
―What about the swimming pool at the Carsons‘ house?‖
―That would be awesome!‖
―How‘s that gonna work? You can‘t get hundreds of people in Carl‘s backyard.‖
Not to mention the greater obstacle, thought Dave. Convincing Mr. and Mrs.
Carson to fill their in-ground pool with chocolate pudding.
―How could we get everyone there? We‘re not allowed to use the buses.‖
―Why not?‖
―Insurance reasons,‖ Dave said. It wasn‘t exactly true, but it saved a more
detailed explanation.
―What if we called it a class retreat, only for sophomores? You know, for
bonding?‖
―Bonding,‖ said Seth. ―James Bonding.‖
―My uncle has a farm we could probably use. He might let us dig a pit.‖
―How would we transport the pudding?‖
―What if we used mud?‖
―What?‖
―What if the tug-of-war pit was filled with mud, not pudding?‖
―That would be easier.‖
―But we‘d lose the theme, and Jason‘s already making posters.‖
Dave felt a trace of alarm. Loose talk of pudding was one thing. Plans to hang
flyers? The officers were serious.
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―We need food to make our spiritual application,‖ said Natalie. ―Remember what
Principal Stratham said? We can‘t make a mess without an edifying point.‖
They had already talked to Stratham. Dave‘s heart began to sink. Surely the
principal was humoring them. The odds that he‘d let this happen were zero to none.
They simply didn‘t compute.
―Tell me again — what‘s our point?‖
―To make the biggest mess in the history of MCA.‖
―Something about spiritual food.‖
―Like Manna from heaven? Or the loaves and the fishes?‖
―Loaves and Fishes. We should name a game that — you know, like Sharks and
Minnows.‖
―Fish are gross. Anyway, we can‘t use meat.‖
―Manna-manna-bo-bana . . .
―Why not?‖
. . . Fe-fi-fo-fana . . .‖
―It‘s not sanitary, and it‘s too expensive.‖
. . . Man-na.‖
―What‘s our point, if it‘s not manna or fish?‖
―That verse in Paul,‖ said Natalie. ―You know, spiritual food for mature
Christians.‖
―Whatever works,‖ said Seth. ―As long as you get chocolate syrup in your hair.‖
She punched him on the arm, a light hit. It encouraged the tease, rather than shutting it
down. Dave could hear bells ringing at their wedding.
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Natalie moved from pleasure to business with ease, a consummate professional.
―We‘ve already got more than enough events. The tug-of-war has to go.‖ She ignored
their groans. ―We have to be practical. We have to draw a line.‖
Was that it? Had he crossed some line that he didn‘t notice? Was there an
obstacle he missed, a turn he forgot to make? Suppose he took that chance — a new
major, a new college, even a different hairstyle? His junior year, the starting defenders
on the soccer team had gone to the barber for matching flat tops. They challenged Dave
to adopt the look as well: it would demonstrate unity and intimidate the opposition. He
wimped out, afraid to draw notice to himself. His mom wouldn‘t approve of the style, he
claimed. He saw the pity in his teammates‘ eyes, and he felt the shame of cowardice.
That night, he gelled and spiked his short hair. He examined himself in the
mirror, flattened the top with a ruler, and tried to envision a landing strip. If he screwed
up the courage and asked for that high and tight, would his path have still led him to the
classroom? Would he be earning twenty-two grand per year to eavesdrop on kids talking
Jell-O? Did all trails end at this point, no matter how different they looked at the
crossroads?
Was he Jonah? Was Ohio just another name for Nineveh? When the great fish
opened its mouth, would he always be spit out at MCA?
He pictured his life as a dark road, that old cliché for confusion. It twisted and
wound, soaked with both rain and oil. His Ford LTD was fishtailing on the wet asphalt.
It was senior year, and he was searching for a party at Bill Potter‘s house. He was lost.
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The Potters lived north of the city, but a crude map led Dave in the opposite direction.
He passed the industrial parks along Folley Creek, the blocks of warehouses and machine
shops. Strands of barbed wire ran along tall, chain-link fences that bordered each lot. He
debated the virtues of turning for home. He‘d claim he felt sick, mix himself a chocolate
chip milkshake, and play one-man RISK until two in the morning.
He was already late, and parties made him nervous. He would bounce from one
conversation to the next, hands in his pockets or holding a Coke. Always smiling, so that
everyone knew he was having a good time. They would keep inviting him to parties. He
invented things to say — jokes and stories to make his friends laugh — but never opened
his mouth. Instead, he squirmed like an intruder: afraid that he wasn‘t really wanted,
merely tolerated. He was a nice guy, a good guy, the type of person that you invited to
parties because . . . well, somebody had to be invited to parties, and he always seemed to
have fun. So he drank his soda and ate his chips and provided a backdrop, this twodimensional cut-out that focused the spotlight on three-dimensional souls.
Friends had encouraged him: step out from this cardboard façade. Even Bill
claimed he should talk a bit more, because he had good things to say. ―What things?‖
Dave wanted to ask. Because he was terrified of saying the wrong things. So he said
nothing, hovering on the perimeter of each snapshot, and told himself that appearing in
the background was almost as pleasant as standing in the center.
He would go to the party and nod to the music, but he would seldom dance. After
all, when you stopped accepting invitations, you soon stopped receiving them. Yet that
night, on the deserted roads south of town, the directions weren‘t making any sense.
Dave was lost, out of the industrial parks and entering farmland, and he worried that Bill
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didn‘t actually want him to come. The map was drawn wrong on purpose. He skidded
on a wet, oil-slicked curve and came to a halt in the center of the pavement. Enough was
enough. He decided to U-turn for home.
Later that night, sipping his milkshake, Dave examined a city map and saw that
Bill‘s drawing was actually correct. Nervous and anxious, he had turned it upside down
and misread the instructions. So he worked on his excuse, which was better than
considering the alternative — that no one would ask where he‘d been, because they
hadn‘t noticed he was missing.
Was that it? At that point, had he parted ways with the man he should have been?
Dave and Dave′. Dave had gone home, but Dave′ had corrected the mistake, hitting the
party at its craziest point. He opened his mouth for a change and had himself a damned
good time. People admitted they liked him — they really liked him. The girls touched
his arm, and guys slapped him on the back, saying what a great teammate he was.
Really, he ought to get more playing time. Why didn‘t he hang out more often? The next
weekend, they were going to the lake. He needed to come; in fact, they insisted on it. It
wouldn‘t be the same without him.
Terri said Yes to Dave′: she would love to go to Homecoming with him. She
could not imagine what she had been thinking the first time he asked. The second time as
well. And he was not silent but full, full of life and energy that he poured as a blessing
into his friends. And his friends blessed him in return. They challenged this new,
unexpected man to make something great of his life: to study medicine or law, to attend
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seminary and pastor a megachurch . . . anything but that small Christian school in
nowhere, Ohio.
Dave′ went on to greatness, while Dave was lured back into MCA. Talking with
the older teachers, the ones who knew him as a student, he joked about his return. He
enjoyed it so much the first time, he wanted a second helping. They all laughed, but he
worried what they really thought. The truth was, he returned because he‘d been
miserable in high school, and a new tour might somehow negate that attempt. He could
wipe his slate clean and recover the life that he‘d lost, somewhere along the way.
―What do you think?‖ asked Seth.
―What‘s that?‖ In that moment, he knew what he thought. This grand return had
accomplished nothing. It hadn‘t even been grand. He had been teaching for three years:
the freshmen of his first semester were taking their SATs and thinking about college.
Dave′ seemed more distant than ever. The experiment had failed.
It would be his last year at MCA. He would look for a position elsewhere. In
fact, he wasn‘t convinced he still wanted to teach, and admitting this fact made him
happy and relieved — the lightest he‘d felt in months. A parasite had been working its
way from the inside out. Now he had finally spotted the disease.
―What do you think about our idea, Mr. Kingman?‖
―Well. . . .‖ And — in that moment — his newfound resolve disappeared, even
faster than it had arrived. He saw the full depth of his predicament, and the shade that
had lifted began to descend once more. He was no longer David or even Dave. He was
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Mr. Kingman. And Mr. Kingman would not start looking for jobs, because he‘d be
teaching at MCA that coming fall. And the next fall. And the fall after that, until it was
no longer Seth Collins asking him, ―What do you think?‖ but Seth‘s son. And the
question would always be a lie, because Seth didn‘t want to know what Mr. Kingman
actually thought, because what he was really asking was ―Am I a good student?‖ And it
wasn‘t really a question at all, but a demand for approval, the same approval that Mr.
Kingman still longed to receive himself. So he would answer Yes, Yes, the eternal Yes.
Because you, Seth, are good and deserving of my praise. Advance. Advance, I say:
onward and upward, to your next project and course and grade. Regardless of whether
or not the student deserved his commendation. Because all Dave really meant to say was
Take me with You.
The officers described their plans for a series of food-based challenges, this
competition between the grades with the primary goal — as far as Dave could actually
tell — of smearing chocolate syrup on their friends and teachers. His attention faltered
amid their many explanations, and his role in the Sundae Schoolteacher slipped past his
guard. He promised to sign their application.
He didn‘t remember them leaving. He grew more and more focused on the
setting sun, until darkness had filled the room. Dave had forgotten the title, but he once
read a long, boring book where the heroine‘s fate had been doomed by a swinging door.
A safe had accidentally shut, and she locked herself out before she could replace an item
that she had removed. He still felt the panic of that moment: the slow, interminable arc
when the future had not yet arrived but the outcome was already determined. Now, he
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watched from the inside of that safe. The door closed, the line of light shrinking smaller
and smaller. He could have plotted the regression equation, this formula passing before
his eyes. For an instant, he spotted the girl on the outside. She was startled, turning a
beat too late, and beautiful in her distress.
In the years that followed, he would sit in the dark and wonder about his
predicament. He could never decide: did the door keep the two of them apart, or had she
trapped him in a cage?
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Application to Host a Special Event / Assembly
Application to Host a Special Event / Assembly
MCA High School
Name of Proposed Event:
Date of Proposed Event:
Sponsoring Organization:
Advisor’s Signature:
______________________________________
______________________________________
______________________________________
______________________________________
Hosting a Special Event / Assembly is a priviledge and a responsibility. To demonstrate
that your organization has carefully considered the logistics involved, please attach a
sheet(s) with answers to the following questions. This form must be submitted at least
three weeks prior to the date of the event, and it must be approved before any publicity
or promotional announcements are made on school grounds or at school activities.
1) What is the event?
2) Who will be involved? ( The entire school, or a subset of the student body? )
3) When will the event occur?
4) Where will the event take place? ( If school property is involved, please describe
plans for set-up and clean-up. Be responsible stewards of MCA resources. )
5) Why should the event be held? ( Include its Spiritual Application / Relevance as
well as any ancillary benefits. If requesting to host an event during the school day, taking
away from class or chapel time, the standards for acceptance are much more stringent.
The Spiritual Application / Relevance must be especially compelling. )
6) Supply a tentative Schedule / Itinerary. ( Proposals that include an excessive amount
of unallocated time are unlikely to be approved. )
Significant changes to these plans must be given to the Principal’s office in writing, no
later than one week prior to the event. Altering plans without prior approval may result in
disciplinary action against the sponsoring organization.
Approved: ________________________________________
Date:
________________________________________
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Edible Olympics Proposal
Sophomore Class Officers
Natalie Stewart, Class Secretary
1) What?
The Edible Olympics. The freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior classes will all
compete in a series of five competitions ( listed in the Schedule / Itinerary ). All of the
events involve food.
2) Who?
The entire student body ( as the audience ). Eight students will participate in each
event, one guy and one girl from each class ( forty participants in all ). The
sophomore class officers will be responsible for set-up, clean-up, and running the
event.
3) When?
A Friday afternoon in March or April, during the last hour of the school day. Classes
will follow the afternoon Assembly Schedule, shortening each period and lunch by
ten minutes.
4) Where?
The MCA High School gymnasium. ( The events could also be held in the
auditorium, but the audience would not be as close, making it less exciting. Also, the
gym would be easier to clean. The events could be held outside, but the weather
might be unpredictable, and it would be hard to hear the Spiritual Application. ) The
events will take place in the center of the gym floor. Portable bleachers will be used
to form a square, along with the regular bleachers on the two longer sides. Each
class will sit on one side of the square.
5) Why?
To promote school spirit and strengthen class unity.
Spiritual Application / Relevance: Each event will be preceded by a short
devotional (one officer will deliver these thoughts as the others prepare the event). A
lesson about spiritual food will close the competition. ( Specific ideas have been
listed in the tentative Schedule/ Itinerary on the following pages. )
6) Schedule / Itinerary
1 PM
Gather all Participants and Materials in the Gym for Final Set-up.
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1:50
Seventh Period dismissed.
Students head to the gym, where they are seated by class.
( If the cheerleaders are interested, they can open with typical pep rally activities. )
2:00
Welcome and Prayer
st
1 Event: Egg in the Face
( Spiritual Application, followed by the Competition )
Spiritual Application: In the following event, the contestants will need to be
resolute. The first one to yield will get an unpleasant surprise. In the same way,
Christians must be steadfast, vigilant and always on guard. The Devil prowls like a
roaring lion. ( Scripture Reading – I Peter 5:8-9 )
Event #1 Egg in the Face
A clear piece of tubing (1‖ diameter) has an egg in its center. The contestants hold
opposite ends of the tube. At the whistle, they each blow into their end. The game
proceeds until one person gets ―Egg in the Face.‖ Eight Contestants (1 Guy and 1
Girl from each class). Winners of the first round compete in the Finals. ( Winner – 2
nd
pts. / 2 place – 1 pt. )
2:10
nd
2
Event: Tootsie Roll Hunt
Spiritual Application: Contestants in the next event will sacrifice their pride in a
daunting search. Admire their determination, and compare their efforts to our own
pursuit of holiness. Remember what Christ said about the Kingdom of Heaven,
comparing it to the Pearl of Great Price. ( Scripture Reading – Matthew 13:45-46 )
Event #2 Tootsie Roll Hunt
A pie plate is filled with instant oatmeal. Hidden in the oatmeal is a tootsie roll. With
their hands grasped behind their backs, contestants may only use their mouths to
find and eat the piece of candy. The first contestant to eat the tootsie roll and recite
John 3:16 is the winner. Eight Contestants (1 Guy and 1 Girl from each grade).
nd
Winner – 2 pts. / 2 place – 1 pt.
2:20
rd
3 Event: Eggs in the Pants
Spiritual Application: Participants in the next event are ill-equipped for the task that
faces them. Don’t be like them. Follow Paul’s advice, and put on the armor of God.
( Scripture Reading – Ephesians 6:11-19 )
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Event #3 Eggs in the Pants
A contestant wears oversized sweat pants (XXL or larger) on top of his/her normal
clothes. The ankles are duct-taped tight. Ten yards away, their partner has a skillet
of scrambled eggs and a large spatula. The first contestant pulls out the waistband
of the pants, forming a circular target, and the partner uses the spatula to toss the
eggs into the hole. The team that gets the most scrambled eggs into the pants wins.
The duct tape can be removed from the cuffs and the eggs shaken out to determine
the winner.
2:30
th
4 Event: The Sundae Schoolteacher
Spiritual Application: We have four brave teachers in the next competition, all
class advisors who have volunteered to sacrifice their outward appearance. Because
it’s not the surface that matters: it’s the heart. ( Scripture Reading – I Samuel 16:7 )
Event #4 The Sundae Schoolteacher Competition
The four class advisors each sit in their own kiddie pool. Two participants from each
grade have five minutes to ―decorate‖ their Schoolteacher Sundae using ice cream
and a variety of toppings (such as whipped cream, chocolate syrup, canned cherries,
marshmallow fluff, and sprinkles). The audience will cheer for their favorite Sundae,
nd
and the volume of applause will determine the winner. Winner – 2 pts. / 2 place – 1
pt.
2:40
th
5 Event: Caramel Apple Eating Contest
Spiritual Application: The final competition extends the previous lesson. In this
event, the participants will taste something that look like candy on the outside, but
proves to be fruit within. (Alternate Lesson: True Beauty. All of our Righteousness
as Filthy Rags) (Alternate Lesson #2: The Fruit of the Spirit)
Event #5 Caramel Apple Eating Contest
At the whistle, the participants will race to eat a Caramel Apple. The first contestant
to eat the apple and recite the fruits of the Spirit is the winner. Eight Contestants (1
nd
Guy and 1 Girl from each grade). Winner – 2 pts. / 2 place – 1 pt.
2:50
Closing Remarks on Spiritual Food (MCA Teacher)
In the closing remarks, a teacher can discuss the difference between spiritual milk —
for new Christians and immature believers — and spiritual food. Possible emphasis
on the need to mature in our faith. I Corinthians 3:2 / Hebrews 5:12
3:00
Dismissal
The class with the most points wins the Edible Olympics & bragging rights.
( Until next year’s competition, that is. )
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The Sundae Schoolteacher
Acting on some unfathomable whim, Stratham approved the proposal. Dave was
astonished, yet the officers took the good news in stride. They hadn‘t considered the
odds stacked against their request. In fact, rather than celebrate their preternatural
fortune, they were irked by his single demand: the principal refused to allow the Eggs-inthe-Pants competition. It required too much pre-cooked food, and the method of
determining a winner was awkward and confusing. But those weren‘t his central
objections. He had spotted a layer of subtle, sexual imagery within the event‘s
description. In his mind, the game provided a subversive metaphor for intercourse: eggs
flying off the spatula of one gender, landing in the pants of the other. Dave tried to
envision what Stratham saw — the convoluted biology — but he couldn‘t quite grasp the
concept. Not unless his boss was thinking about seahorses, the male animals giving birth.
Even that didn‘t fit.
The topic spurred vigorous debate in the officer meetings: conducted in whispers,
to keep the discussion from Mr. Kingman‘s ears. Based on the scraps that Dave gleaned,
Stratham‘s move was an utter failure. Rather than shield their minds from sex, it
energized the students and focused their attention on the questionable imagery. They
worked as a team to unravel his secret interpretation — for the boys, with far greater
diligence than they ever applied to their schoolwork. The peculiar readings they devised?
Graphic twists that men like Stratham would never dream.
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It was a common theme at MCA: the attempt to keep students from evil just gave
it more publicity. Take the school library, where the books had all been cleansed with a
black magic marker. Every offensive word was hunted down and crossed out, a
Herculean accomplishment that required a full-time librarian and two parent volunteers.
Even C.S. Lewis was censored: the seasoning of ass and damn that graces his take on
Narnia. But the editing did not hide the troublesome passages. On the contrary, it drew
attention to their location. In an unmarked copy, the offensive words were camouflaged
amid pages of mild diction. Such works floundered in obscurity, collecting dust on the
shelves of more secular institutions. Not the MCA editions. To find the best parts, you
simply flipped through the book. The more dark streaks you encountered, the better the
novel was likely to be. Library visits turned into competitions. The challenge? Discover
the volumes with the heaviest editing. Students held pages to the light and deciphered the
hidden words. They studied the nuance within each sentence, learning to wield these
lexicographical weapons, and paid far more attention than they usually devoted to
reading. They memorized the unfamiliar phrases and recited them like verses.
Visual censorship had a similar effect. In a way, it reminded Dave of the
government officials who made a big show out of clothing a topless statue. The farce
simply emphasized the sexual nature of the sculpture. Back when he was an MCA
student, his English class had watched an old film version of Romeo and Juliet. The
technology was woefully obsolete, a decrepit projector still being used to screen the black
and white print. Most of the students were bored. They yawned at the poetic language
and the artistic cinematography. Then, midway through a scene in Juliet‘s bedroom, the
teacher switched off the projector light, and the room turned to shadows. In an instant,
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their eyes were riveted to the empty screen. As the reels continued to turn, they tried to
envision the images passing that unlit bulb. Only nudity or sex could warrant that level
of editing. The audio track was still playing, more distinct and sensual than ever: the
lovers reciting their lines of verse, the moments of silence as they kissed. The pictures
that flashed through David‘s mind were far more erotic than any contained in the film.
In time, the officers abandoned their search for Stratham‘s hidden symbols. They
returned to planning the Edible Olympics. Thus it came to pass, in the spring of 2007,
that the student body filed into the MCA gymnasium, the teachers and students abuzz
with speculation. They had read the flyers and heard rumors about the assembly, but they
didn‘t know what to expect. No one had told them the purpose of the gathering. Most
didn‘t care. An excuse to miss class was an excuse to miss class: they weren‘t about to
look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it happened to be a Trojan. A handful of teachers
grumbled about the shortened schedule — this imprudent waste of an hour — but others
were as thankful as their pupils. Some upperclassmen rolled their eyes at how lame it all
seemed. The officers in the Senior class were concerned that a pack of upstarts had
stolen their thunder. Whatever chaos they intended to host themselves, their grand finale
at MCA, it would now be compared to this afternoon‘s spectacle. The sophomores had
broken ranks and forgotten their place in the Great Chain of Being.
The crowd was easy enough to excite, but far more difficult to calm — slow to
settle for Natalie‘s opening remarks. The schedule demanded quick shifts of energy:
thoughtful attention to the devotionals, frenzy for the events. The students had trouble
keeping pace. The reflective moments were underscored by a constant murmur, whispers
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that intensified as food and props began to emerge, the preparation for the next
competition. As the outmatched speaker tried to explain the Spiritual Relevance, the
spectators turned to the visual show. Stratham grew impatient. He was standing near the
temporary bleachers, clearly annoyed. He wanted to assume control. Another decibel or
two, and he would stride to the microphone and offer the masses a real point to chew on.
The events were going well. Plenty of students got egg in the face. One or two
managed to dodge the yolk: destined to lose, they shoved the tube to the side. The egg
shot past their head and onto the floor, often beyond the plastic tarps that officers placed
to contain the mess. The Tootsie roll hunt was a crowd-pleaser, the oatmeal masks that
contestants wore as they tried to chew the candy. The fervor increased with the Sundae
Schoolteacher competition. The audience cheered as each new topping was dumped on
the class advisors. Even Stratham seemed to enjoy himself, a sadistic pleasure in the
misery of his subordinates.
Not that these victims saw much of the action. They were blind for most of the
contest. Each teacher was given a pair of swimming goggles, but these were soon
streaked and smeared. The top of the skull was a natural target, and ingredients ran down
their noses and cheeks. Dave had questioned the scoops of ice cream. Wouldn‘t they
simply fall off the teacher and land in the bottom of the tub? But Natalie was prepared.
She had allowed the frozen containers to melt, and their contents were almost as viscous
as the chocolate syrup. The sophomores abandoned their scoop altogether and poured the
gallon on David‘s head, anointing him with cream. The seniors went for aesthetics with
their culinary masterpiece: when they were finished, Roger Weatherford looked like a
cross between Bozo the Clown and Batman‘s nemesis The Joker. Bethany‘s juniors got
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second place. She was the only female advisor, and her sticky makeover was far more
exciting to the students than watching the men get slimed.
Dave could understand their interest. Beth had not captured his fancy as she
stood in the pool and waved to the crowd at the start of the competition. She was
wearing an oversized T-shirt and a modest pair of Umbro soccer shorts. Her legs were
solid, not slender. But everything changed once the toppings were introduced. Dave
could not specify the effect. It was probably a combination of factors. Saturated with
syrup and cream, her outfit clung to the skin: MCA‘s version of a wet T-shirt contest, or a
misogynistic video by a second-tier rock band. Her arms and legs were streaked with
color. It gave the flesh a wild aspect — a raw, unhinged sexuality — as if the gym had
become a rain forest and Beth was an Amazon princess-warrior.
So part of the attraction was this erotic cliché, the stock footage from a teenage
boy‘s wet dream. But there was something else, a counterpoint latent in the scene. A
touch of the hermaphrodite. The previous month, Beth had donated a chunk of her hair to
Locks of Love, leaving a short, chin-length bob that she pulled back tight for the contest,
making a tiny bun at her nape. When the toppings had dampened and darkened the style,
the severe effect was almost masculine. Combined with the swimming goggles, which
added a futuristic, robotic element, the slicked-back look could even be called
androgynous. Whatever it was, Dave was transfixed. Beth glanced his way, and they
shared a short, sweet laugh: seen but not heard, given the pandemonium in the gym. She
turned back to her cheering students, but Dave‘s gaze lingered, hidden behind the
goggles. He couldn‘t explain this strange fascination. When he noticed his growing
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attraction, he averted his eyes — concerned that he‘d find himself aroused, right there in
the kiddie pool, in front of Bethany, Stratham, and the entire MCA family.
Once the Sundae Schoolteacher was over, the officers should have improvised a
close. The events had gone longer than scheduled. It was 2:50, ten minutes to dismissal.
They ought to have cued the speaker to offer his final thoughts. The Caramel Apples
could wait for another day. But Seth was determined to push ahead. Dave felt a
suspicion growing, the sensation that teachers develop, deep in their gut, as mischief
begins to draw near. Seth arranged the contestants at the tables, meticulous, as if
matching the participants with specific fruit.
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What Happened to the Apples
Dave was a helpless observer. If he had tried to leave the tub, still dripping with
ice cream and toppings, he would have simply added to the chaos. Most likely, he would
have slipped on the tarp and cracked open his head. The contestants stood at long tables:
the four guys at one, the girls at another. Seth finished explaining the rules, and Natalie
gestured to hurry.
Seth whistled for them to begin. The students tore into the apples. After a few
bites, Chris Bowers gagged. At first, Dave thought that the senior was choking, and he
wondered if Seth could perform the Heimlich. If he couldn‘t, Natalie probably could.
But Chris wasn‘t in danger. He spit out a mouthful of chunks. Seth had not specified
that the apple must be swallowed, only that the wooden stick at its core must be visible.
But Chris wasn‘t trying a shortcut. He was finished, with absolutely no intention of
taking another bite. He sniffed at the fruit, made a disgusted face, and threw down the
apple, which ricocheted off the table and rolled to the bleachers. He yelled something at
Seth that might have earned him a suspension, had the noise of the crowd not drowned
out his comment.
All of the juniors and seniors were having similar reactions. The younger
contestants continued to chew, though the freshmen looked absolutely miserable. A few
yards away, Seth and Ryan were doubled over in laughter. Natalie stood near them,
horrified, as if she couldn‘t believe what her class president had done.
448
What Seth had done — as the contestants already knew, and the rest of the gym
learned through word-of-mouth — was prepare caramel-coated onions and offer them to
the unwitting participants. Only the sophomores were provided apples. The sweet
coating masked the smell — the initial bite, even. The need to rush offset the curious
weight: it registered as an unusual detail, but nothing worth stopping to examine. When
the tasty surface gave way to a raw, bitter interior, the victims realized the trick. The
upperclassmen ceased eating at once. The freshmen knew that something was horribly
amiss, but they were far too scared to stop.
Few in the crowd understood what was happening. As their representatives quit,
the audience screamed for them to continue. In the center of the gym, the anger began to
mount, the seniors and juniors now shouting at the sophomore officers. Chris looked
about ready to clobber Seth, who was laughing even harder. The closest teachers were
trapped in the kiddie pools, and the crowd was getting restless. It was time to go home.
The caramel onion that rolled to the bleachers had been thoroughly examined. It
came sailing through the air and landed at Natalie‘s feet. She let out a shriek of surprise.
Dave envisioned a worst-case scenario: an all-out food fight, a riot in the gym. Stratham
was thinking the same thing; he grabbed the microphone, ordering students to take their
seats. The principal was clearly torn. On one hand, he longed to redeem the chaos. If he
closed the day with an edifying reflection, he might salvage this travesty. But he was
also furious. The mayhem occurred on his watch, and he was itching to unleash a tirade,
a rebuke of the ranks for this lack of decorum.
In the end, he made a far wiser choice. Because Stratham wasn‘t an idiot. He
knew when to cut his losses. The man could be cunning and strategic, the times that his
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power was slipping away. He dismissed the seniors, pushing them out of the gym and
away from the edible projectiles. One at a time, the other classes were also released. As
the students cleared the bleachers, Dave signaled the officers to begin picking up. He
wanted to lend a hand, but stepping out of his plastic enclosure would simply increase the
mess. He avoided Stratham‘s glare and braced for the outburst that seemed destined to
erupt.
They were saved by a ruckus in the hall. It diverted the principal‘s attention, and
he followed the noise, barking commands as he left the gym. Meanwhile, the officers
were congratulating themselves: they considered the day a rousing success. Even Natalie
was pleased. She had been angry about the caramel onions — a stunt she had vetoed in a
meeting — but only because the others had acted behind her back. The result, she had to
admit, was a comic masterpiece. Dave failed to grasp the depth of the humor. He
stressed the need to get moving and return the gym to its original state. Before Stratham
returned, if humanly possible. Yet it was soon apparent that their plans for cleaning were
far less developed than their other schemes. Which only made sense. It is far more
interesting to create a mess than to deal with it afterwards.
Bethany came to the rescue. She observed that the kiddie pools could serve as
temporary trash containers. So they folded and rolled the tarps, loading them into the
plastic tubs, and carried the mess out to Dave‘s truck. Still dripping with ice cream, he
left to go change his clothes. By the time he emerged from the locker room, most of the
work had been finished. Even the temporary bleachers had been removed. He looked
around for Bethany, but she had excused herself as well. The image of her in the pool
450
was still potent and vivid. The officers were mopping the court, the dribbles of caramel
and yolk that ran with the grain on the hardwood floor.
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What Stratham Said
The weekend passed. On Monday, the officers reported that feedback had been
positive: students liked the event, and even the seniors were laughing at the prank.
Natalie feared payback, but Seth insisted that everything would be fine. The crowd had a
short attention span. Spring Break was imminent, and the countdown to graduation had
begun. If anything, he was distressed at how quickly their triumph began to fade. He had
envisioned the Edible Olympics on a grandiose scale, a catalyst for school-wide reform
and revolution. That clearly wouldn‘t be the case.
The teachers gave Dave a mixed response. The veterans said they couldn‘t recall
anything ―quite like‖ that assembly. Some offered this comment as a positive remark.
The others? Not so much. The younger faculty were far more enthusiastic, especially
Bethany and Gordon, then in his first year at MCA. The students needed more spirit and
life, and events like this were just the ticket. Dave concealed his own opinion: the
assembly had been manic and disordered. He was bracing for Stratham‘s reprisal. If
next year‘s officers talked about a sequel, he would try to resist their plans.
The reprimand came a week later. A letter to the officers, and a personal
addendum on Dave‘s copy. At first, the principal‘s critique was veiled in praise. He
admired their initiative, planning such a bold assembly. He was pleased by the
enthusiasm of the audience, at least till that last, regrettable turn of events. The officers
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latched to these comments, evidence of the day‘s success. But Dave knew better. The
preamble was hollow. Stratham was drawing back, gathering strength, and preparing to
drop the hammer.
The principal noted that even the best intentions could lead to confusion, a central
reason that planning was so essential. Spirit and energy were commendable, but chaos
was seldom edifying. He wanted to offer a few suggestions — constructive criticism, to
be precise — that would benefit future events they might plan. First, he was concerned
that spreading the spiritual application throughout the program had diluted its impact.
Because the devotionals were brief, they came across as trite. Nothing significant,
nothing lasting. Even worse, because the schedule had proved too ambitious, the
concluding thoughts were never delivered. They should have been the last detail to be
cut, not the first.
He guessed at their mistake: creating the event, then scrambling to define its
Spiritual Relevance. In his opinion, a better approach was to start with the spiritual truth
you wished to convey. You worked backwards, designing the program that best achieved
this effect. Such a method led to unified, coherent and profitable assemblies.
Stratham then focused on specific issues. It had not been clear, reading the
proposal, that students would risk the ingestion of raw eggs. The salmonella threat
should have been covered in greater depth. Had the participants signed a waiver, a
release that absolved the school of liability? Because stewardship of MCA resources also
involved protecting the school against damaging lawsuits. He approved of the Sundae
Schoolteacher Competition, although the waste of ingredients was a bit extreme, given
this troubled economy, when food banks struggled to stock their shelves. If a can
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collection had preceded the event, it might have offset this lavish waste. Nevertheless,
these shortcomings were both minor and present in the schedule that he had approved.
He blamed himself, almost as much as he faulted them.
The same could not be said for the final competition. The Caramel Apple eating
contest had not adhered to its description. He would never have sanctioned the
competition they actually held, which achieved its effect through trickery and deceit.
MCA events were vetted for a reason. It prevented disorder, the chaos that occurred in
those final minutes. The approval form had clearly stated the importance of notifying his
office about changes to the itinerary. It also explained that a failure to observe these
guidelines would result in consequences. His hands were tied. Circumstances being
what they were, he was forced to present them each with an official warning. They
would continue in their current roles, but a second lapse in judgment would lead to more
serious repercussions.
Seth and the boys took this warning in stride. They were familiar with Stratham‘s
threats. But Natalie was devastated. She had written the proposal, so she read the
critique as a personal attack. She was accustomed to praise from authority figures, not
censure, and held back tears as she talked to Dave, asking him what she should do. Did
she need to write the principal a personal apology? Should the officers provide a formal
statement to the entire school? She felt terrible. She wanted to make things right.
Dave assured Natalie that she was overreacting. He lied, claiming that Stratham
wasn‘t displeased, simply trying to make them better leaders. Wasn‘t that what being at
MCA was all about? Otherwise, a principal would not take the time to offer them
suggestions. He had provided the warning to be consistent with the rules, nothing more.
454
Natalie sniffled and nodded. She too valued consistency. In the end, she accepted
Dave‘s promise that the incident would pass: her permanent record would not be
indelibly marred. He hoped he was speaking the truth.
He didn‘t say what he really wanted to say — that Stratham was a bully who got
off on wielding power. His methods were failures: the overt critiques, the deconstructive criticism, the passive-aggressive moves. The students who needed the
guidance ignored it. But the student whose conscience was already tender? Who was
already on the right path? It broke his spirit and reduced her to tears.
Dave‘s copy of the letter had an additional, handwritten note at the bottom. It
reminded him that being a class advisor was a privilege. The implication was clear: if he
didn‘t exert more control, the role would be taken away. His first impulse was a snarky
rebuttal. He would be glad to relinquish the duties, since he never asked for the headache
in the first place. But the more he considered his reaction, the more he began to value the
position. To his great surprise, he now desperately wanted to keep it. The chord would
strike often in his life: he seldom knew what he wanted, until he was threatened with loss.
455
On the Schoolteacher Sundae
Being An Early Draft of an Email from Bethany to M— F—
M—
Thanks again you for sending me those the opening pages of
‘Meeting As Sundaes’ for me to review. It didn’t I I
appreciate the chance to offer a few corrections, a second
perspective on all of these events. I don’t know anything much
about writing ^a novel, and I can’t imagine how hard it must be,
trying to take taking all of our feelings and perspectives into
account. Perhaps that’s why the N.T. includes four gospels from
four viewpoints: make sure that everyone’s to show the four
different ways that how four different people ^all saw Jesus. [
Cut? ]
To be honest, I was a bit surprised that the Edible
Olympics are part of included in the book. Dave told me that
Dave explained that its the primary Dave keeps describing it as a
tale about all the crazy stuff events that happened to him on
that weekend last last October ^when he disappeared – the things
that what happened ^to him down in Tennessee and the mountains. I
haven’t been able to get him to He doesn’t talk much about those
it, and I thought for a while that – for a long time – I thought
that it must have been pretty traumatic or exciting. Now, I’m
starting to wonder if anything really happened at all. ( I guess
I’ll have to wait for the book, huh? )
Sorry that it’s taken taking me so long to get to the
point. I’ve never written an author to offer advice [
author/offer . . . never noticed how similar they sound ].
Especially when I’m the character they that I’m giving the advice
about. ^I wonder if all characters feel this way. If Harry Potter wants to talk to JK Rowling
about the way she portrayed him.
Harry. )
( Of course, I know that I’m a very different type of character than
[ NOTE TO SELF: probably need to cut or trim most of that
opening. ]
I’m going t
First of all, I find it odd surprising that Dave is
critiquing the way that I tell the our story. After all, he
tells it that way too, almost as much as me. We both know it’s
not completely true. N As he says ( an I know it’s not him
speaking, but the story belongs to him ) As he says, we ^each
learned each oth the other’s name a semest a yea a yea 1½ years
before the Edible Olympics. But the story gives listeners a
decent chuckle, and it contains a kern grain of truth. Like he
456
said, we noticed one another, and we laughed together. Isn’t
that what it means to meet somebody? To actually pay attention
to them? To notice who they are – not sim to understand what
makes them laugh, which is far more important than shaking their
hand and pretending to memorize their name. So I stand by my
story, after all. I knew who Dave was before I got covered in
chocolate syrup, but we met as sundaes.
S. Baker. Ah, Stephanie. She strung him along like a twodollar banjo. [ mehhh ] I thought about saying something –
either to him or to her – but I didn’t. I suppose that that I
was annoyed at them them both – him for gravitating straight to
Little Miss Highlights, and her for accepting and encouraging his
advances ^awkward hovering. I figured that they were both getting
about what they deserved.
That isn’t to say wh that I was envious of her. Or that ^On
the contrary.
To hear Dave I’m sure Dave’s given you his version of
my opening years at MCA – how I was infatuated with him from the
get-go, and spent the next three years in the design and
implementation of some diabolical plan that trapped him in my
clutches. grasp. He always pretends that things happen to him
through forces beyond his control. That simply isn’t true. None
of it. He makes far more decisions than he’s ever willing to
admit. And
I
Also, you should keep need to remember my mindset when I
first arrived at MCA. I was coming out of a bad relationship at
my previous Christian school ( thank you – by the way – for your
promise to keep its name secret. I’ve got a lot of good friends
there, and I don’t want to cause trouble, simply b/c one of their
teachers coworkers there is a jerk ) I don’t want to go into the
story, but suffice it to say that he a man pushed me farther and
faster than I was comfortable, made promises that he didn’t mean,
and hung me out to dry when he was grew bored. When I write all
that down, it stares at me like the bad clichés of clichéd plot
of a bad ^TV Lifetime movie. But that’s not how it felt at the
time. I fe thought I would be safe, dating a Christian
schoolteacher – a man on the fast track for Principal, I everyone
said. Still on the fast track, as far as I know. But all of
that, that’s a story for another time. The point that I’m tried
trying to make is this: when I first saw heard David’s name in
the teacher meeting that day, the I was at a point in my life
when the last person on earth that I’d want to date would be a
Xian schoolteacher. Even if I was, I’m not sure that I’d find
him Dave all that appealing. To be honest, he seemed like a bit
of a fool show-off – walking into the room like he was a seasoned
pro, a 10-yr veteran, or God’s gift to MCA. He was cute, but not
that cute. To be I thou Mr. XXXXX, who taught History and
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coached Wrestling, was a little more my style – a little bit more
not fat, but a little more weight than my current man. I’m not
fat or overweight – I’m fit, and directly in the center of my age
height/weight but I’m not the smallest, most petite thing you’ll
ever meet. I don’t need a man who can carry me across the
threshhold, but I’d like to be able to sit on his lap.
Dave grew on me
I’m not sure why I’m telling you all of this. Most of it,
I haven’t b Most of it, Dave doesn’t even know. ^At least not everything.
Maybe that’s it – I keep thinking about all the secrets that he’s
been telling you – that I assume he’s been telling you, based on
the ^few pages I’ve read. And Things that he hasn’t been willing
to share w/ me. It just makes me a little en jealous envious,
that’s all. Isn’t that silly? I’m jealous of this a writer this
fictional that that I’ve never even met in person. You might
even be a fictional character, for all I know. Wouldn’t t A
figment of David’s imagination. That would be like him – invent
an author and use him to tell a our story that Dave do
Anyway, I was you’re probably real enough. I’ve seen your
pages, after all. And I’m envious of your connection to my
boyfriend. Perhaps I thought that telling you a few secrets of
my own, it might be a way to get even w/ him.
Good luck w/ the rest of the book, and let me know if you
need would like my feedback on any other sections.
In Christ,
Bethany
P.S. I don’t mean to be so critical, but reading those first few
pages of Meeting As Sundaes – even though they were short – it
really hurt my feelings. I know that you’re only simply
interpreting the things that he told you, so I need to keep that
in mind. It’s not your fault. But I’m not sure that I’ll be
able to read this when you finish. Of course, I’m not sure that
David would want me to.
P.S. (2) You asked if how David and I were doing as a couple.
As you know, the weeks after he returned were rough. We weren’t
talking much, and Stratham he got in deep trouble w/ Stratham.
He received a formal reprimand for misusing a sick day, another
for the fight, and they even blamed him for missing that
Saturday’s game (which is crazy, because he wasn’t allowed to
actually attend the game ) Dave thinks that he’s going to be
demoted, either to 8th grade coach or JV assistant. I worry that
he underestimates his predicament. I don’t think that Stratham
intends to re-hire him.
458
Christmas was rough. I didn’t go w/ him to TN, and he
didn’t come to Ft. Wayne. I felt so much closer to him last
year, back when we just started dating. We’re still together,
but it just doesn’t much feel that way.
Gordon says that I need to be patient – that if things we
will work out if Dave and I are really meant to be. I just wish
that I had G’s faith.
Once again, I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. And
I’ll probably cut most of it before I send you the email. It’s
just easy writing these things to you – easier than telling them
to Dave. Maybe, I’m hoping that you’ll tell me a secret or two
in return – something that happened to David in the mountains.
Like what made him go hiking in the first place, or how he
injured his ankle. What he discovered, that lets him take all
these problems in stride. Some days, he’s nonchalant and happy
and acts like he’s found the secret to life. Others, he’s quiet
and thoughtful. Not in a good way – but a way that terrifies me,
as if nothing at MCA can be half as disturbing as things that
he’s already seen or done. As if he’s looked at the face of evil
and spotted his own reflection.
I don’t know. Perhaps I’m imagining things. Maybe it’s
something else. When I’m writing to you, it’s almost like I’m
talking to myself, or praying to God. I guess Maybe that’s one
reason that Catholics talk to priests. Or people see therapists.
We all need Authors to confess.
M— F—’s response, after being shown the draft:
This note is fascinating, much more interesting than the letter she actually sent me. How
the hell did you get a copy of it? The email that I received was short and professional. It
discussed the major differences between her perspective on the Sundae Schoolteacher
and the account that Dave provided. To be honest, it wasn‘t very useful — mostly things
that I‘d already guessed. I wish that I‘d had access to this draft instead: it provides a
better picture of who Beth actually is — her hopes and her fears — much less guarded
and composed than the vision I was granted, back when I wrote and published the novel.
459
Blount County Snapshots: Roll II
Summer 2010
§
After dinner, they sat outside and talked. Bethany offered to clear the table. ―The
food was wonderful, Mrs. Kingman.‖ She started to gather dishes, oblivious to her faux
pas.
Laura chose to ignore the mistake. ―Thanks, Bethany.‖
Something in the tone caught Beth‘s attention. She stiffened. ―Did I call you the
wrong name? I‘m so sorry, Ms. Walker.‖ Patches of red shot into her neck. The entire
drive south, she had quizzed Dave about his complicated family history, determined to
make her visit a success. Now, she had slipped on one of the easiest details.
―Don‘t fret yourself. Call me Laura: it‘s simpler.‖
―No simpler than Laurel.‖
Mom rolled her eyes at Grandpa‘s remark. ―You know, I still get junk mail
addressed to Mrs. Kingman — that‘s what, how many years after the divorce? Twentyfive. No. Twenty-six.‖ She seemed taken aback, amazed at the sum. ―Twenty-six
years. Jesus.‖ She looked at Dave for confirmation. ―Is that right? How old are you?‖
―Twenty-eight.‖
―Can‘t be,‖ said Grandpa. ―Twenty-eight? You‘re over the hill, son.‖
―He‘s a young twenty-eight.‖ Beth was older than Dave, and she often
downplayed his age. The comments were partly affection, encouragement when he
460
grumbled about his feeble accomplishments. But they also soothed her own fears. She
would turn thirty in October: unmarried, childless, the plot for her life behind schedule.
―Twenty-six years,‖ Mom repeated. ―I‘ll be.‖ She moved to the patio door, her
expression hard to decipher.
―Where are you going?‖ asked Rachel.
―To open a bottle of wine. I want to offer a toast. To Charles, who spared this
family years of frustration — who humbled himself and admitted the truth.‖
―The truth?‖ said Dave.
―That he couldn‘t spit-polish an Appalachian woman. Not to Kingman standards,
at least.‖ She entered the house and closed the door.
§
Grandpa leaned toward Beth. ―No man can tame a catamount. You can lead a
girl from the mountains, but she won‘t stop baking cornbread.‖ The comment was meant
to be funny, yet its delivery fell flat. His heart wasn‘t in it. Samuel had welcomed his
daughter‘s second divorce, the split from Mr. Pete, but he rarely spoke ill of Dave‘s
father. Perhaps he sympathized. He had encouraged that vibrant spirit, the charm that
men felt in her eyes and laugh, and he knew how stubborn she could be. Her will was a
powerful force: at times, more powerful than her discernment.
Charles and Grandpa might have been friends. Nothing close — Dad‘s reserve
kept others at bay — but a quiet respect. Besides, how much of his father‘s demeanor
had stemmed from the divorce? Once upon a time, Charles won the great prize and
captured Mom‘s heart. He must have possessed a charisma, a power that now lay
dormant. In the wake of her exit, stunned by the turn of events, had his pensive side
461
emerged? Was his calm, collected persona a strategy, honed over years in banking and
finance, designed to minimize future risk?
§
Beth tried to get Dave‘s attention. ―Our contract,‖ she mouthed. Her brow
furrowed, and she bit at her lip.
―I‘ll take care of it.‖ He had guessed that the issue might surface.
If offered a drink, Beth would refuse in the sweetest, most courteous manner
possible. But that wouldn‘t sit well with Mom. She responded to civility with grace.
Sweetness? Sweetness was an entirely different matter.
Rachel watched the exchange with amusement. ―Twenty-eight years.‖ She spoke
low, as if talking to herself. Dave knew that wasn‘t the case. ―Twenty-eight years and
never been. . . .‖ Her voice faded to silence before she completed the thought.
§
A corkscrew and a bottle of Shiraz were on the table, but Mom wasn‘t in the
kitchen. She emerged from the bathroom in the foyer, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
―Are you okay?‖ her son asked.
She froze, caught off guard. Then her gaze became tender, a touch
condescending. Dave felt like a child again. My son, she seemed to imply, how little you
know about mothers and women. ―I‘m fine. Once or twice a year, I remember your
father at his best. I consider what might have been.‖ She removed the seal from the
bottle. ―I get nostalgic. I indulge in a nice, healthy cry for a minute or two.‖ The silence
that followed was awkward. ―Make yourself useful, and get out the wine glasses,‖ she
462
said. ―We‘ll be fancy for a change. You‘re making me all self-conscious, standing there
with your mouth agape, like you‘ve never seen a woman cry.‖
She gestured at him with the corkscrew. He imagined her driving the point in his
chest, twisting deeper and deeper, until she secured his heart. ―It‘s not regret,‖ she said.
―I‘ve never regretted our choice, not the way your father did. I‘ve had days that I secondguessed, others I mourned my pride. But there‘s a chasm between doubt and regret. I‘ve
always known that we made the right call.‖
§
―Why didn‘t you get back together?‖ he asked. ―Why didn‘t you try, at least?‖
The questions escaped before he could check himself. They had been on his mind since
that afternoon, when Beth asked if his parents had ever tried to reconcile. Had they
fought to preserve the union? He spotted the question beneath her question: What did he
think? Was a troubled marriage worth the effort?
Statistics were not in his favor. Sometimes, the children of divorce would argue
that the trauma had strengthened their resolve. Having lived through the turmoil once,
they were determined to marry for life. But the numbers didn‘t support these boasts. If
your parents split, you were far more likely to get a divorce yourself.
Once, discussing the issue in a teacher‘s meeting, Stratham had blamed
generational sin. What a father sowed, the son and the grandson would reap. Parents
were not always punished. The judgment could be delayed, passed down the family tree.
Like a furniture sale, the no-interest payments broadcast on TV, their true cost postponed
for years. Such a proposition was simple to grasp in theory, but hard to apply in the real
world. When your best friend collapsed on your living room couch — sobbing and
463
broken, devastated by her husband‘s infidelity — how could you offer comfort? Would
you look her in the eye and suggest that her great-great-grandmother was probably a
whore?
Hadn‘t Christ refuted such nonsense? The notion that prenatal blindness might
stem from a parent‘s sin. Mutation happened. The world was a fallen place, and
genomes are tainted with Adam‘s curse. Not everything has a scapegoat. Jesus was
talking about illness and deformity, but wasn‘t divorce a form of disfigurement? Two
bodies, once joined, now violently ripped asunder.
Dave preferred terms of nature and nurture. Perhaps the impulse to divorce was
an inherited trait, carried deep within the genes, the same type of risk that children of
alcoholics faced. More likely, the issue was model and imitation. If you watched parents
work through their problems, you learned how to deal with conflict. Marriage required
both talent and skill — some inherent, some learned — no different than woodworking or
playing quarterback or marching in a high school band. Part of the ability was innate, but
elements could be practiced and developed. If you never studied a successful marriage, it
became harder to construct your own. Imagine learning to drive in a family that had
never owned a car. You had to examine the workings from within, all the dirt and grime
that accumulate in real life. Otherwise, you were a man who attempted to build a truck
without looking at an engine.
§
Mom threw a half-pour in two of the glasses. She pushed one drink his direction
and lifted the other to her nose. She inhaled, reading the aroma, and allowed herself a
sip. Her eyes closed with pleasure, and contentment passed across her face.
464
Her answers came slow, as if speaking from a dream. ―Your father tried. Two
times, he took the first step.‖ Dave had guessed as much, based on comments that
Grandmother made. But he wanted to know the real story: not simply what happened,
but why. ―The first time, you were still a toddler.‖ The divorce was still fresh. Dad
brought a peace offering to her apartment: a sausage and onion pizza from Cecil‘s Italian
Oven. ―He said that we gave up too soon. He apologized: he had been stubborn,
determined to have his own way, and wasted our passion on fighting.‖
Mom sipped at her wine. ―He was sweet. He took more of the blame than he
actually deserved. All of the faults he confessed, they belonged to me as well. Both of us
were responsible. If I was a sensible girl, I might have accepted him back.‖ Mom shook
her head. ―But I‘m not.‖ She had plenty of common sense, but she wasn‘t sensible. Not
then, at least. She knew what ought to be done, but she could seldom bring herself to do
it.
―I thought I‘d be a natural at marriage. I was determined to prove my father
wrong.‖ He had warned her to slow the engagement. Marriage was harder than it
looked, he said. But that merely strengthened her resolve. ―Besides, he waited too long
to speak. By the time he opened his mouth, the wedding was only a few weeks away.‖
The things that Dave longed to know, he could not bring himself to say. He
settled for the mundane: ―I thought that your wedding was small,‖ he said. ―Couldn‘t
you have pushed it back?‖
―You‘ve been listening to your Grandmother again. She was not impressed with
the reception, which was far less elegant than her only son deserved.‖ Mom shrugged.
―But that‘s what she thinks about most things: Midfield, your father‘s job, the woman he
465
chose to marry . . . probably your job as well.‖ Dave nodded and affirmed her guess,
which pleased her even more.
Laura fixed her son with a peculiar look, as if something was written across his
face. He had seen that gaze before — not on Mom, but her father, directed at the waters
of a stream. Hiking in the backcountry, about to cross a hazardous ford, Grandpa would
study the current. He examined its depth, the power within the flow. He gauged the risk
of those initial steps.
Mom plunged ahead. ―The reception wasn‘t the issue. By the time Grandpa
spoke, your father and I had larger concerns. You were already on the way.‖
§
In the months to come, reliving the scene, Dave was often amused by his quiet
reaction: ―Excuse me?‖ His inner response to Mom‘s bombshell was far less subdued.
―You were already on the way,‖ she repeated. ―Don‘t act surprised. I know that
you‘ve known for years. You‘ve done the math: start with your birthday, and subtract
nine months.‖
―But—‖
―Oh . . . my . . . God.‖ Mom covered her mouth, her eyes wide. ―You really
didn‘t know? All these years, and you didn‘t know?‖ She clapped her hands in delight.
Her pleasure disturbed him. ―How would I know a thing like that?‖
―You didn‘t know, and — Bam! — I just blurted it out. You‘re so like your
father, it scares me at times. Solving your theories and calculations, but the question in
front of your nose. . . . Your birthday‘s the second week of April. Nine months back is
the start of July.‖
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―I know all that.‖ He snapped at her attempt to tutor. ―Weren‘t you married that
summer? I assumed that meant June.‖
Mom pretended to be appalled. ―You don‘t know your own parents‘
anniversary?‖
―When they divorce before you can talk, you don‘t bother to learn the date. I‘ve
seen pictures on Dad‘s dresser.‖ She stiffened, as he guessed that she might. ―But I
didn‘t examine your marriage license.‖
―August 18.‖
―What‘s that?‖
―August 18.‖
―But that—‖ He stopped. He didn‘t want to think about it anymore: not his
parents and sex, his father and mother in bed in Athens, Ohio, that hot Midwestern
summer.
―You were conceived in late June or early July. Long after your father proposed,
if that‘s what has you so flustered. We were already planning to marry, but you . . . well,
you lent an urgency to the fiesta.‖
―Wait.‖ Dave tried to count weeks in his head. ―I was born earlier than you
expected, right? So it would actually be possible—‖
―Sorry, kid.‖ Mom shook her head. ―Two weeks late, like you weren‘t that eager
to face the world. The doctors were preparing to induce.‖
―Grandmother always told me—‖ He paused. The picture began to grow clear.
467
―Exactly. We told them you were a few weeks early, and they agreed not to visit,
giving you time to gain weight. We blurred the timeline. Not that we were embarrassed.
Your father, maybe — not me. I‘ve always been secretly proud.
―They had their suspicions, I‘m sure. Especially Grandmother. But the numbers
were close enough to be respectable — about thirty-six weeks after the wedding — that
nobody bothered to ask.‖
―Ask what?‖
―Ask what?‖ She laughed. ―Do you really need me to spell it out? If you were
legitimate, of course — a bona fide Kingman.‖
―Why wouldn‘t I be legitimate? You were married before I was born.‖
―Sure, by one way of reckoning.‖ She leaned forward. ―But some people . . .
well, they might contend otherwise.‖ At the words some people, visions of Stratham and
Mr. Pete sprang instantly to mind. ―To them, you‘re just as great a bastard as your
sister.‖
§
―What was I talking about?‖ Mom asked. ―A minute ago, before I ruined the
story of your birth? How Grandpa asked us to move slow, but I thought that he simply
objected to Charles. That wasn‘t true. Our fathers are more alike than you probably
suspect — one of the reasons I‘m so good at pushing their buttons.‖ She didn‘t know that
at the time. If she did, she would never have said yes.
In those days, she was angry with her father. ―I saw him as weak, always
deferring to Mom. He didn‘t deserve my respect.‖ On the other hand, when Grandpa
laid down the law, she called him a tyrant and challenged his inconsistencies. ―Which is
468
humorous, looking back. He‘s about the most steadfast person I know. It was really a
matter of perspective: he only seemed inconsistent, because I was unstable myself.‖
She described her decision to attend Ohio University and change her name from
Laurel to Laura. The girls in Blount County scared her to death: they married early,
dropped out of college to raise a family, and never left the state. The major events in the
story, all finished before they were thirty. ―The same pitfalls waited for me in Ohio. I
just didn‘t know that at the time.‖
She was trying to spite her dad. ―He left southwest Ohio and settled in east
Tennessee. I would reverse the course, demonstrating exactly how dissimilar we were.‖
Looking back, she offered a different reading: she was nervous about leaving, and Ohio
was filled with Dad‘s family. She would be running away from home, but living near
blood. Thus she affirmed his life through the move, the opposite of her intent.
The same thing with Charles. They fell in love, and she encouraged his talk of
marriage. ―I believed it would irritate Dad, wedding myself to this Ohio boy.‖ She
laughed. ―Can you think of a stupider reason for getting hitched?‖ Once again, the
choice revealed a subconscious love. She returned to his homeland, selecting a mate in
her father‘s mold.
The story came straight out of Genesis. Grandpa was Abraham, drawn south to a
strange and foreign land. When Isaac needed a bride, the patriarch turned to the land of
his relatives. On the mission to find a wife for his son, the trusted servant met Rebekah at
the well. The comparisons broke down. Mom required no proxy: she handpicked her
man. Even so, her son found the parallels striking.
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§
Marriage required concession, but she and Charles were loath to yield. She
refused to admit that her father was right. ―I was too embarrassed,‖ she said.
―Embarrassed and angry and hurt and proud.‖ She blamed marriage itself, denying the
institution‘s value. ―I couldn‘t accept that the problem might be me.‖ She looked at her
parents, their own dysfunctional union. Dave started to ask what she meant, but Mom
interrupted. ―Let‘s not kid ourselves. Grandma loved Grandpa, but I doubt she was
actually in love with him — not the way that he loved her, at least. Same with her
attitude toward me. She treated me well and looked after my needs. It‘s just . . . every
now and then, she stared at me with this curious gaze, unsure how I fit in her life.
Sometimes, she looked at Dad the same way — like she wasn‘t quite sure how they
ended up married.‖ In the end, she was able to love him. ―Not as much as she longed for
her family, and certainly not with the depth that my father loved her. But he didn‘t have
much of a choice. Her love was a spigot. His was a dam that had burst.‖
§
At the time, she thought love like that was a weakness. ―Marriage was stupid, if I
was so terrible at it — if it turned men like my dad into fools. The whole institution had
to be a sham.‖ When Charles approached her and asked to reconcile, she told him no.
She‘d given up on marriage. But she wasn‘t telling him. She was saying it to her father.
She attempted to ease the disappointment. She praised his potential as a partner: Charles
would have made the best husband in the world, had she actually wanted to be a wife.
―I regret telling him that, by the way. It offered him hope, a chance that I‘d
change my mind.‖ If she had been fierce, she might have severed his affection. He could
salvage his heart and preserve it for someone else. ―But I couldn‘t let him do that. I felt
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so much power that evening, those beautiful things that he spoke. That affection and
passion and desire, all of it focused on me. I accepted it all, and I sacrificed nothing in
return.‖
§
―We should get back outside,‖ Mom said. ―Beth probably wonders where you
disappeared.‖
Dave nodded. Who knew what stories she learned, sitting with Rachel and
Grandpa? The answer struck him in a flash: nothing more shocking than Mom had
revealed. He was hesitant to face his sister, now that he knew the truth.
Mom pointed to his wine. ―Don‘t you like the Shiraz? It hardly looks like you
touched it at all.‖
―I didn‘t. Beth and I will toast you with sweet tea.‖
―What‘s that?‖ Her tone was innocent but deceptive, the blade hidden beneath the
surface. He knew where Rachel had learned to dissect.
§
Mom was not asking him to sin. She saw nothing wrong with drinking, and she
knew that he felt the same way. She simply wanted to see if he‘d disregard his contract.
From her perspective, that would merely be civil disobedience.
They had debated the subject on multiple occasions. Mom argued that MCA‘s
contract was unethical. It complicated the lives of teachers, hampering their
effectiveness. Not simply the drinking, but the laundry list of guidelines. The classroom
was already tough enough. Why make it more treacherous, sowing the aisles with
childish mines?
471
In theory, Dave agreed with what she said. To be contrary, he challenged her
critique. When I was a kid, you claimed that resistance led to better effort.
Resistance, she would answer. Not leg irons and shackles. But she never
suggested he quit his job. She saw him as a spiritual commando, infiltrating the
stronghold of religious rulers — weakening the regime from within. A little yeast leavens
the loaf, she liked to say. Jesus would break that contract, the same way He broke the
rules of the Pharisees. He always busted conservative chops.
Christ wouldn‘t get trapped, Dave answered. The Son of Man would never sign.
Give to Stratham the things that are Stratham’s, and to God the things that are God’s.
Mom grunted her approval. She often wavered on MCA‘s value. Some days, she
argued that its leaders were misguided, but the school itself was all right. The students
took home a solid education, despite the best efforts of men at the top. Those times she
grew bitter, she railed that Christ Himself would not step inside those walls.
Dave would attempt to humor her mood. Christ wouldn‘t have a choice, he said.
Stratham would halt the Savior at the door: too many dress code violations.
§
―Sure you don‘t want a drink? A swallow for the toast?‖
What a messed-up family, he thought. ―It doesn‘t matter what I want. We‘ve
signed a contract.‖
―That con-tract.‖ She blew air through her lips, dismissing his objection. ―It
didn‘t stop you last summer.‖
Her claim was true enough. He had enjoyed a six-pack with Grandpa on the
patio, looking at maps and reliving hikes. ―Last summer was different.‖
472
―What‘s so different about it? Not much changes down here.‖
The only thing different was the company he kept. She had raised the bar. In the
presence of a co-worker — his girlfriend — would he break MCA rules to make his
mother happy?
―I don‘t want Beth feeling awkward, being the only one to turn you down.‖
―Won‘t she drink?‖
―Not when she‘s promised not to.‖ In his mind, he drove the point home: she has
far more integrity than me.
―Not even to celebrate the twenty-sixth anniversary of your mother‘s first
divorce?‖ Mom laughed, pretending it was a joke. When Dave shook his head, she
modified her goal. ―What about here? A quick toast, just you and me?‖
He almost surrendered. Beth wouldn‘t have to know. He could join in the family
mischief, no longer the prodigal, self-righteous son. But Mom had annoyed him, trying
to push his buttons, and he stood his ground.
She stared at him for a second, waiting to see if he‘d cave. Her patience expired.
―Your loss, my son.‖
§
―The second time.‖
―The second what?‖ Mom asked.
―The second time Dad asked to reconcile.‖ He wanted to know the timing: before
or after her marriage to Mr. Pete?
―Let‘s go rescue your girlfriend.‖ Her manner was crisp and abrupt. She would
say nothing more that night.
473
§
The rest of the evening passed without much incident. Beth slept in the extra
bedroom, and Dave claimed a spot on the couch. As he waited to fall asleep, he replayed
the exchange with Mom.
Everything was clearer in the dark. Alcohol wasn‘t the issue. Neither was the
contract. She was testing his allegiance. She wanted to know how serious they were, her
son and this rival from the north. Whose side would he take? Mother or ingénue?
Laura had challenged her son‘s relationship. The result had surprised them both: she had
lost.
474
Contract Negotiations
Dave imagined himself as Captain Jack Sparrow. Like the Pirate Code, The
MCA Lifestyle Covenant was filled with guidelines, not rules. He followed most of the
advice, but he didn‘t consider it binding. Legally, perhaps. Not morally or spiritually.
He wasn‘t alone. That‘s what he thought, at least. It was hard to know for
certain, because showing your hand was a risky move. You might be speaking with a
kindred spirit. Then again, your colleague might report on your misbehavior. It was a
terrible aspect of the contract, this specter of McCarthyism. The precepts were supposed
to make you a role model. Instead, they nurtured solitary vice. Teachers primped and
postured in front of their peers, hiding their secret lives. Good men became Pharisees
and liars.
After half a year of dating Beth, Dave braced himself and revealed his feelings
about the covenant. He approached the subject on theoretical grounds, never suggesting
he‘d broken the rules on purpose. Which was true, in a sense. The times that he broke
them, he did it on principle, claiming the moral high ground. When a contract is unjust,
the just man breaks the contract. He tried to pretend that he didn‘t sound like Mom.
No, Bethany said. If you think that a contract is wrong, you refuse to sign it. You
find yourself a different job.
475
It was the response he expected. She saw the world in black and white, while he
preferred a grayscale version. It featured more nuance, the wonderful texture of God‘s
creation.
Rachel went a step further, of course. His sister reveled in high-definition color.
It was almost the end of their relationship. Beth couldn‘t grasp his reasons for
signing a document that he opposed. Thinking the rules are silly is one thing, she said.
You put up with them, rolling your eyes, because the benefits outweigh the costs. But
claiming they‘re unjust?
He knew the answer he wanted to give: the spiritual life demands paradox. It
entails contradiction. Which wasn‘t an answer at all, simply a new debate. He would
open with doctrine, ignoring the awkward transition. How they clung to sovereignty as
well as free will, accepting them both at once. Even the Christians who championed one
or the other, they really believed in both.
The uncertainty was critical. Essential, even. How could there be faith without
it? Take Christ. Why didn‘t He write His own story, ensuring a standard account?
Instead, he left the task to His followers, knowing — in His omniscience — that the
multiple reports would never quite mesh. Why allow that to happen, unless He wanted
the enterprise fluid? To give His words space to play?
Dave understood the danger. If he started down this path with Beth, he would
soon be over his head. You swim at the beach, in shallows along the shore, not the miles
of ocean beyond the horizon. She would declare her belief in Scripture, the inspired
476
Word of God. He would agree, but he couldn‘t resist a caveat: in the original
manuscripts. Which became a problem, since none of the originals were available for
consultation. Scholars had ancient manuscripts, to be certain. But even the oldest were
copies of copies of copies, transcribed over centuries, after the earliest versions had been
written, read, and lost. Many of these documents were fragments, and none were
completely in agreement. God had chiseled the Old Covenant in stone. With the New
Covenant, He went out of His way to map a different course.
All of these problems could turn your stomach, thinking about them too much.
You began to question everything. When you read the letters of Paul, were you really
getting the authentic product? The designer label, not some imitation knock-off? Those
verses that didn‘t seem to fit? Could they actually be marginalia, annotations by some
crotchety, medieval scribe? Over the centuries, were they slowly absorbed by the text?
The dilemma made his head spin. He couldn‘t imagine its effect on Beth, who liked her
world stable.
He kept his mouth shut. He buried the issues deep, and the storm passed
overhead. In the end, Bethany made an uneasy peace. She dismissed his claims
regarding the contract. He was simply being antagonistic, she said. He was posturing,
bristling at rules that he actually followed. She had watched him in action: she knew how
he lived.
At the time, he let her believe what she believed. The truth? The truth was
slightly more complex, but they‘d cross that bridge when it arrived.
477
Blount County Snapshots: Roll III
Summer 2010
§
The subject was beans. Bethany fired her questions at Grandpa: Why pole beans,
not bush beans? Had he thought about double-planting them with the corn, the vines
climbing stalks for support? Why not?
She reminded Dave of a bobblehead doll — listening to Grandpa‘s answers with a
series of intent nods, absorbing the information. She previewed the topics she wanted to
discuss. After they finished with beans, she needed to talk eggplant.
It was ten in the morning, but the sun was already hot. Sweat spread beneath
Dave‘s arms and the collar of his shirt. Beth had requested a tour of the garden, and
Grandpa was more than happy to oblige. His grandson tagged along, proud of his elder‘s
work. Yet the moment was bittersweet. If Beth raved about the current plot, the gardens
on Redburn would have blown her away.
That tall, wooden fence had focused your attention. The enclosed lot fought its
restraints, exploding with life. Much of its beauty came from the tension between chaos
and control. Climbing vines ruled the perimeter, wild and unrestrained, but they also
provided structure, wrapping the package like twine. The lines of the lawn were crisp
and well defined, yet the blossoms exploded in random clusters. The oasis pulsed. Bees
flew from stamen to stamen, deliverymen in an organic factory. Their routes appeared
random at first. Later, they formed patterns that became a dance.
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Dave would have loved to observe Beth‘s face. The space would mesh with her
imagination, some garden from such-and-such childhood book, a magical portal to
strange and wonderful worlds, where children fought dragons and wizards, evil queens
and enchanted knights. Where they found love and beauty and valor and faith. Dave
might have been embarrassed, Beth gushing like that, especially if Mom or Rachel were
present. He would also be pleased.
So the inspection of Grandpa‘s new garden was enjoyable and sad. Not because it
wasn‘t impressive. Indeed, Beth was sufficiently enthralled. But it paled in comparison
to the mythical tour, the circuit that might have been. Reactions that never took place.
§
On Redburn, the sense of crowding had added to the mystery: the vines on the
walls, the flowers and leaves competing for sunlight. It could get downright
claustrophobic: the air rich with fragrance, the drone from the insects. The space was in
constant rebellion. It defied the respectable atmosphere, the gentrified streets of the
neighborhood.
At the new house, the lawn was more spacious. The suburban lots were seldom
fenced, and the horizon was broad. The scale was larger. The foothills of the Smokies
drew your gaze to the east, and the rectangle of Samuel‘s husbandry was swallowed by
the overall view.
His efforts were laudable, given his age and physical limitations. They just
weren‘t as magical as before. Not that it mattered to Bethany, who celebrated the variety
of vegetables that Grandpa had planted. She praised their advanced state of growth, this
early in the season.
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―Simply a product of latitude,‖ Grandpa said. ―Not skill. Your beans would be
equally strong, if Midfield started when we did.‖
§
Because the new lawn sloped, he had built a raised garden. The exact height
shifted to keep the plot level, somewhere between six and eighteen inches off the ground.
He claimed it was more about convenience than anything else. The structure had been
simple to build, easier than breaking and tilling the actual ground. These days, he
purchased his soil from Lowe‘s.
Dave didn‘t believe this lazy posture. Grandpa had designed it as a challenge: to
show what he could still do, and to distinguish this new endeavor from earlier projects.
The walls were basic in their construction, but they were also elegant. Each corner was
dark, treated lumber, and the longer sidewalls were made of brick. ―I wanted to go allwood,‖ Grandpa said. ―But the pieces were too big to lift.‖ He reached out and squeezed
his grandson‘s arm. ―If I had this guy‘s muscles, I might have done it.‖ The grip
pinched, and Dave tried not to react.
The rectangle was long and thin: at least twenty feet from end to end, but less than
five feet wide. In other words, kneeling outside the wall, you could still reach most of the
plants. On the perimeter, chicken wire deterred the local rabbits.
―What about deer?‖ asked Beth.
Grandpa hadn‘t quite solved that problem. ―One of these days, I‘ll run a strand of
electric fence.‖ At the moment, he kept them at bay with commercial repellant. He
couldn‘t recall the actual name, some type of predator piss. He was also experimenting
with a homemade concoction, a mixture of water and crushed jalapeños. He sprayed it as
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a mist, coating the leaves. Most deer weren‘t too keen on taco salad. But the cocktail
washed away when it rained, and you had to rinse your harvest good, removing the hint
of peppers — unless you wanted your vegetables spicy, that is.
―What I ought to try planting is alums,‖ he said. ―Hit the deer with some flower
power.‖
―Would lavender work?‖ asked Beth.
Grandpa smiled. ―You know your plants.‖ She had already won his favor,
showing interest in the garden. The fact that she was well-informed? That she
understood his latest success, better than anyone else in the house? Extra credit for the
girl.
§
The asparagus had come and gone. The carrots were months away. Everything
else was in full effect: cucumbers, corn and summer squash; bell peppers and Swiss
Chard; four varieties of tomatoes, their plantings in staggered batches. ―That way, all
summer long, we get a steady supply of fruit.‖ Grandpa watched Beth for a reaction.
―You know that tomatoes are a fruit, don‘t you?‖
She claimed that she did, but he provided the lesson anyway. ―Anything with
seeds,‖ he said. ―Tomatoes, oranges, avocados.‖
The last one surprised her. ―Avocados?‖
―Even almonds.‖
―Now you‘re just pulling my leg, trying to see what nonsense I‘ll swallow.‖
Grandpa insisted that he was serious. We can look it up, he said. An almond tree
produces fruit, but we only eat the seeds.
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―Did you know all this?‖ Beth asked Dave.
He pointed at Grandpa. ―Only what I‘ve learned from him. Ask him about
berries. He‘s got an entire routine on the subject.‖
―I‘ll give you a hint,‖ said Grandpa. ―Don‘t believe the names. When it comes to
berries, a strawberry isn‘t one.‖
―A strawberry isn‘t a berry?‖
―Neither are blackberries. Raspberries too. Not technically, at least. If you want
to be a berry, you need a single ovary — no more, no less.‖
Dave wondered if Beth would blush. She didn‘t. The subject fascinated her.
Now Dave was the one embarrassed, chagrined at his juvenile mind. Like a junior high
student, listening to adults converse.
―So what has a single ovary?‖ Beth asked. ―Besides a tomato, I mean.‖
―Bananas,‖ Grandpa said. ―Pumpkins. Watermelons.‖
―You‘re saying that bananas, pumpkins, and watermelons are berries, but
blackberries and raspberries aren‘t?‖
―That‘s correct.‖
―Grandpa, you‘re rocking my world.‖
§
Dave charted the progression in his mind. In less than twenty-four hours, Beth
had graduated from Mr. Walker to Samuel to Grandpa, all by the old man‘s invitation.
Dave was annoyed and pleased at this license. On one hand, he was glad that her visit
was going well. But the plan was to acclimate her and the family, not weld their
connection. He wasn‘t quite ready for that type of bond.
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Sunflowers towered at one end of the garden. It bothered Dave‘s sense of order,
the flowers so close to the fruits and vegetables — even those flowers with edible seeds.
Grandpa‘s lecture on berries continued. Dave stifled a yawn. He‘d seen this
performance before. Now, it simply reminded him of arguments at MCA, the verseparsing and the endless quibbling over minutiae.
He walked back to the porch, where Mom sat with her own mother in the shade.
She asked him to fill Grandma‘s feeders. They were called that out of habit, in deference
to the years at the house on Redburn, where she had managed them for decades, watching
her avian confidants land and depart. Lily dreams about flying away, Grandpa claimed.
It was hard to know if he was kidding.
But she hadn‘t touched birdseed in years, not since two of her earliest symptoms.
One morning, Samuel had spotted an overburdened feeder: it was brimming with instant
oats. The next week, suspicious-looking kernels began to appear in her homemade
peppercorn dressing.
These days, Grandma watched birds that she could not identify. They ate seed at
the feeders she no longer filled.
Roll III, Continued: Undeveloped Snapshots
§*
They observe the duo in the garden. Mom speaks well of Bethany, describing her
as kind and respectable. At first, Dave assumes she is making peace. In time, the
question she‘s asking grows clear: before things progress any further, is he certain that‘s
what he wants?
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§*
Dave comments on how well that Grandpa is walking. They discuss his ongoing
recovery, which is remarkable for his age. Even so, the leg is a constant frustration: eight
years after the amputation, he‘s still uncomfortable with the prosthetic.
He doesn‘t hike much, Mom says. He‘s scared what might happen. Dave finds
that hard to believe: he can‘t remember his grandpa being scared of anything. You‘re
thinking of the man you remember, she says.
§*
Grandpa and Beth return, and Mom brings out tea. Beth is still praising the
garden. She can‘t believe that Dave didn‘t tell her. Why doesn‘t he doesn‘t brag about
Grandpa‘s green thumb?
The old man downplays his skills, but he‘s clearly proud. David always liked
maps and overlooks, Samuel claims. The big picture: where the trails led, the mountains
and rivers. The boy wanted to swallow the valley whole. He was much less concerned
with the individual plants.
§*
Beth examines Grandpa‘s cane. It is actually a branch, a souvenir from Redburn
that Grandpa has sanded smooth. Over the years, he has carved ranks of salamanders
into the wood. Its entire length is crawling with amphibians.
He explains their significance: the Smokies are known as The Salamander Capital
of the World. Dozens of varieties make the park their home, including the Hellbender,
which can grow up to two feet long. Beth is appalled at such a beast.
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There‘s also a second reason, Grandpa claims. ―A salamander that loses its tail
can often sprout a new one.‖ He strikes his prosthetic. ―Reminds me of someone I
know.‖
§*
Rachel joins them on the porch. Dave can‘t help comparing her to Beth. Their
outfits have similar themes: hiking sandals, khaki bottoms, white tops, hats, and their hair
pulled back. It‘s the details that matter. Beth‘s sandals look new and fresh, while
Rachel‘s are faded and falling apart, mauled by rocks and riverbeds. Beth‘s white
peasant blouse has a floral pattern about its open neck, and her Capri pants are cute but
demure. A single, thick French braid drops between her shoulder blades, and a sunhat
shields her face and neck. Rachel‘s shorts are not immodest, but they display plenty of
leg. Her tank top arrived in a three-pack from the men‘s department, either that or she
swiped it from Grandpa‘s dresser. Her ponytail is threaded out the back of a dirty,
camouflaged baseball cap — claimed from the wardrobe of a former boyfriend, most
likely, and retained as spoil of war.
He can spot the tattoo on the back of her shoulder: a web of blue lines and dotted
black trails. The symbols are familiar, the creeks and paths of the upper Middle Prong.
Near Indian Flat Falls, where Grandpa went down. A Cherokee phrase is woven
throughout the design, but he does not comprehend its words.
Rachel had planned to cover her entire back: a far more intricate map, and
elaborate depictions of the waterfalls, rhododendron, and a troublesome bear that delayed
her race to find help. Grandpa was forced to carry a permanent reminder; she wanted to
be scarred as well. Not as punishment, but in memorial.
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Horseshit, said Grandpa. He wasn‘t dead yet. Besides, she had plenty of scars
from that day. You just couldn‘t see them.
He convinced her to limit the design. His own wounds were bad enough. There
was no need to ruin a second body. Still, she refused to abandon the entire plan. She was
stubborn — her mother‘s daughter, after all.
§*
Dave tries to make small talk with his sister. He asks about Wyoming. The trip‘s
in a few weeks, she says. It was supposed to start earlier, but a financial crunch had
forced her to condense the schedule. Last month, she had to boot Captain Asshat out of
her apartment. For now, she was paying the bills herself.
How‘s school? he asks. I‘ll graduate soon, she says. Soon could mean anywhere
from two months to two years.
Dave can‘t think of anything else. They‘re alone at the moment, their first
conversation in half a year. He comments on her hair, which seems longer than before.
That‘s probably true, she says. She wants to do something funky — like dreadlocks, or
dying it blue and shaving the sides and back — something before her trip out West. He
can‘t tell if she‘s serious or not. It‘s a common occurrence when they talk. Sometimes,
she‘s telling the truth; others, she‘s simply trying to make him react. On many occasions,
it‘s both.
Dave floats a remark about Captain Asshat, an invitation to elaborate. She
doesn‘t bite. He jokes that her standards are too high, spoiled from those years with
Grandpa.
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―I don‘t need him to be Grandpa,‖ she says. ―But I sure as hell don‘t want him to
be you.‖
§*
―She admires you, you know.‖
Funny way of showing it, Dave says.
―I know,‖ Mom says. ―But couldn‘t we say the same about you? She‘s afraid.
You‘ve hurt her before. She won‘t let it happen again.‖
§*
Rachel lived among binaries, after all. Midfield on one side, Maryville on the
other. Same with the Kingmans and the Walkers. The evil empire, and a band of
freedom fighters.
She never had a choice. She was never anything but a Walker. Her brother,
however, could move between camps. He would have to declare his allegiance. Twice
now — his senior year, and the return to teach at MCA — twice, he had sided with the
villains.
§*
That night, Dave renews his siege. Mom doesn‘t want to talk, but he presses her
on the subject — Dad‘s second attempt to reconcile.
―You already know most of the story,‖ she says. ―You were four or five, getting
ready to start kindergarten. We saw each other on a fairly regular basis, but your dad
wasn‘t making a move.‖ She dated other men. One of them grew close. Not as intimate
as Charles, given the history they shared, but passionate nonetheless.
―Rachel‘s father.‖
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Mom nods.
―Why didn‘t he ask you to marry him? Once Rachel is on the way, he disappears
from the story. Sounds like a winner to me.‖
―Don‘t judge things you can‘t understand.‖ Her tone was surprisingly firm. ―He
would have asked, but I refused to let him.‖
―Why not?‖
―In order to claim the two of us — the three of us, including you — he would
have had to sacrifice more than I wanted him to offer.‖ He was willing, but she said no.
―That man has a special purpose in this world.‖
―I shouldn‘t be telling you things like this,‖ she says. ―You‘ll start guessing
names, just like every other man I‘ve known. But I don‘t want you to keep fooling
yourself. Rachel‘s father is a good man. So‘s yours. Both of you ought to be proud.‖
§*
―Does Rachel know?‖ Dave asks.
―What? Who her father is?‖
Dave nods.
―She does. I told her on her eighteenth birthday.‖
What a present, he thinks. ―Will you ever tell me?‖
Doubtful, Mom says. She certainly doesn‘t plan on it. Why would she tell him?
Why would he need to know? It wasn‘t part of his story.
§*
―Has Rachel ever contacted him?‖
―They write back and forth on occasion. In time, they might even be friends.‖
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―Is she mad?‖
―Is she mad?‖ Mom fails to grasp his question, almost as much as he fails to
understand her answers. ―Why would she be mad?‖
§*
The rumors of her pregnancy spread fast. Charles came to the apartment and
asked if they were true. He was already half-drunk, and he carried a bottle of wine in
support. He laid all of his cards on the table: he loved her, had always loved her, and
wanted to get back together. He would care for the child like it was his own.
Something black and evil rises from David‘s heart. He imagines choking on
venom.
Charles couldn‘t get over one hurdle: he wanted to know who the father was.
Learning a name wouldn‘t change anything, but the ignorance tortured him. Laura
informed him that she‘d never tell. In the end, that proved to be the deal-breaker. ―He‘s
never forgiven himself for that weakness, his inability to let it go.‖ Everyone was a
wreck: Mom, Charles, Rachel‘s father. She decided to move back to Tennessee, to give
birth away from that mess. The baby would get a fresh crack at life.
―You know the story from there.‖ Maryville was even harder than Midfield had
been; she decided to try Athens once again. The cycle resumed. ―God.‖ She laughs at
herself. ―All my life, I‘ve done nothing but run in circles.‖
§*
Dave admits his surprise that Dad had offered to adopt Rachel. ―You always
underestimate your father,‖ Mom says. ―He was ready to make her a Kingman.‖
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The real obstacles were David and his Grandmother. ―Both of you kept her out of
the club.‖
§*
What about later? After Dad brought them back to Midfield and she had divorced
Mr. Pete? Why didn‘t they get together then?
Mom isn‘t sure. He gave them plenty of space, more than she wanted. ―At that
point, I would have said yes in a heartbeat.‖ She would have told him whatever he
needed to know.
But he didn‘t ask. ―Eventually, a woman can exhaust a man‘s love. No, not his
love — his love‘s still there — but the power and will to express it.‖ She had betrayed
him on two occasions. She slept with a faceless rival and married a bigot from Hocking
County. ―Both of those had to smart.‖
Charles had asked twice, and she turned him down both times. ―We both
understood he would never ask again.‖
§*
―I‘m worried about Mom,‖ Dave says.
―Of course you are,‖ Rachel answers. ―She‘s starting to age.‖ What else did he
expect?
―I expected it, just not this fast.‖
―It only seems fast when you‘re watching in half-year leaps. If you saw her like I
did, you‘d be arguing the opposite: how great she looks, given all of the weight on her
shoulders.‖
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―Should we try to help? Is there anything we can do? I mean, I think that we
ought to do something.‖
She raises a hand and forces him to stop. ―You can‘t keep doing this, David.‖
―Doing what?‖
―You sweep into town, taking a survey and checking that everyone‘s fine. Then
you disappear for six months. You can‘t pretend you‘re a regular part of our lives. You
chose your world. Give us the freedom to make our own.‖
§*
―Are you sure you have to leave tomorrow?‖ Mom asks. It is now Friday
morning. They arrived on a Wednesday afternoon.
―We can stay until lunch. Beth needs to get home by Saturday night. She‘s
helping with Children‘s Church on Sunday.‖
―Of course.‖ They would be sad to see him depart. ―Your Grandpa, especially.
Are you all still planning to go see the fireflies tonight?‖
§*
Synchronous fireflies are found in two locations on the planet: Thailand, and a
few hundred acres in east Tennessee. Unlike their more independent-minded relatives,
which flash their tails to a solitary beat, the lightning bugs near Elkmont perform in
unison. They glow in clusters: sometimes a handful, sometimes dozens at a time. Their
adult lives are short, less than a month long, but in June, they make the most of that
window and put on a display.
Beth enjoys the drive past Chilhowee Mountain and Tuckaleechee Cove. They
follow the scenic route through Wear‘s Valley, and Grandpa points at landmarks, telling
491
stories about people and places he used to know. Beth clings to the door handle on the
climb to Little Briar Gap, and she gasps once or twice on the Little River Road, where the
edge has no railing, simply a drop to the water below. Rachel notes rapids that she and
her friends run in kayaks.
Rangers are blocking the road to Elkmont, restricting access to the trails. The
crowds are too large, the roadside parking hazardous. The Park Service has arranged for
trolleys from Gatlinburg. Dave complains about this change in plans, but Grandpa is
pleased. It is the first step to shuttle service throughout the park, an idea that he once
proposed in his newspaper column — a critical step in reducing the air pollution,
especially in Cades Cove, and relieving congestion. Bethany is also excited. She was
hoping to see Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge. Perhaps a quick glimpse will whet her
appetite, and they can return on a future trip. When they reach the tourist mecca, he
hurries them onto a trolley . . . but not before Beth laughs in delight at block after block
of air-brushed T-shirts, novelty license plates, and pancake houses.
It is dusk when the trolley drops them at Elkmont. A significant crowd has
already arrived. Dave is amazed at its size. When Grandpa brought him as a little boy,
the lightning bugs were still a local secret. Only a few dozen hikers were in the audience.
Now, packs of families are streaming toward the Little River Trail. They tote lawn
chairs, backpacks of food, and picnic blankets — as if they are going to see fireworks,
not fireflies.
Grandpa leads them on a detour, out and away from the logjam on the Little River
Trail. They follow a line of abandoned cabins: vacation homes built in the early decades
of the previous century, when Elkmont served as a popular spa and resort. Their tin roofs
492
are rusted, their floorboards rotted and collapsed. Warning signs keep visitors at bay.
There are plans to restore a few of them. The rest will be destroyed. For now, the
structures are left to the raccoons and rodents, to nesting wasps and coiled serpents.
Grandpa explains all this to Bethany. David and Rachel trail behind. Dave keeps
an eye on Grandpa‘s leg. His stride is slow but steady; his cane picks at the crumbling
potholes on the road. Dave worries about the return trip. It will be dark, and Grandpa
might be hesitant to use their flashlights, despite the red cellophane filters, lest they ruin
night vision for others.
Samuel is leading them to the Jakes Creek Trail, where the crowds are less
intense. It is also the spot where he first encountered the fireflies himself, long before
they had grown world-renowned. He had spent a day in the Little River valley,
wandering down to a campsite at its very end, near the foot of Mount Buckley, a magical
spot where four or five streams all converge. He returned through Cucumber Gap, but it
was later than he realized, well after sunset when he reached the watershed of Jakes
Creek and turned for the car.
―I didn‘t have a flashlight, but I knew I would be fine.‖ The trail was wide and
predictable. His only concerns were bear, which might skulk on the outskirts of the
campground. Then, without warning, the entire hillside seemed to glow: hundreds of
fireflies blazed in unison. Then it was dark. They relit a few seconds later, and he could
follow the contours of the ridgeline and valley, as if Christmas lights had been lavished
upon the landscape. Then darkness once again. He had never heard of this peculiar
behavior. ―I thought that it might be the end of the world. If it was, what a beautiful way
to go.‖
493
Later, he wrote an article on the subject, one of the first to get widespread
attention. ―A fraction of this mob, I guess you can blame it on me.‖ He owed the bugs
an apology, he says. The synchronous display had a specific role in their mating rituals,
and crowds of voyeurs weren‘t likely to set the best mood.
They pass a gate, and the road turns into a trail. The slope begins to increase.
Dave wonders when Grandpa will stop. They have already entered the fireflies‘ territory.
Small clusters are lighting on either side of the path.
The first time he saw them was actually a disappointment. Grandpa‘s story had
sounded so magical; it simply couldn‘t match the hype. They didn‘t all light at once,
every rear end in a ten mile radius. They ignited in groups. A pack would appear to your
right, another in front of you. Each cluster flashed a few times and took a short break.
Another band assumed its place. The distribution was uneven, yet it wasn‘t a visual trick,
the mind seeing patterns in random events. There was definite coordination. Even so, it
was not as spectacular as Grandpa led him to believe. The problem was expectation. He
would have found the performance marvelous, had his hopes not started so high.
They reach the juncture with the Cucumber Gap Trail. Dave‘s heart is beating
strong. Each year, he feels more and more out of shape. He wonders how Grandpa is
doing.
Grandpa turns on a flashlight for a second, and the ground at their feet glows red.
He moves off-trail to the right, following a low ridge, and stops a few yards into the
brush. We‘ll need to check ourselves for ticks, thinks Dave.
The lightning bugs are putting on a show. Beth whispers a sentence or two in
amazement, and they all settle down to a comfortable silence. The flashes are hypnotic.
494
The sound of a creek moves along the ravine, and insects are crying throughout the
woods. Dave‘s eyes adjust to the dark, but he cannot see far. Bethany holds his hand for
several minutes. Then she drifts away, slipping into the night. He doesn‘t remember her
letting go.
He assumes they are near him — Bethany, Grandpa, and Rachel — but he cannot
tell for sure. For all he knows, he is utterly alone. On the hillside, the fireflies join
together to burn their bodies in the night.
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The Valley of the Vols
, $, ♥
MILE 16: A horn startles Dave awake, and he
corrects his truck‘s drift out of lane. A semi is
passing him on the left. It is 4:20 A.M.
He spots the sign for Williamsburg. The
Tennessee border is close. At the Welcome
Center, he will close his eyes and take a short
rest. For now, he tries to keep awake by reciting
the colonial names he has passed: Williamsburg,
Lexington, Georgetown. Possibly a Mount
Vernon as well, though he can‘t remember for
sure. Kentucky is certainly patriotic. Yet it also
favors Europe: London, Florence, Frankfort,
Louisville.
A billboard for a regional university
catches his eye. The slogan has something to do
with careers. A graduate offers a satisfied grin,
raising a diploma in triumph — her weapon
496
against hunger and poverty. Dave smirks at this feeble protection from a cold, cruel
world.
Careers. Another board game from his childhood. You set goals for yourself in
three categories — fame (), money ($), and love (♥) — with sixty points to distribute as
best you saw fit, whatever you longed to collect in this life. You could try for balance: 20
♥s, $20,000, and 20 s. You could be a heartless bastard, all dollars and star power —
30s and $30,000 cash — or a naïve and penniless romantic. The combination you
designed was your objective for the game, and you gathered these ―points‖ on career
tracks that branched out from the main path. Big business and science were excellent
routes for raising cash. Testing your luck as a movie star or an astronaut could be risky:
great potential for fame and fortune, but dangerous squares that busted you down to
nothing. A traditional choice was teaching: little cash, little fame, but lots and lots of ♥s.
It strikes him as humorous, this absurd belief that teachers are showered with affection.
When he arrives at the rest area, Dave parks in a deserted section of the lot. He
tilts back the seat and falls asleep within minutes.
Urine Trouble
MILE 161 (TN): Dave wakes, uncomfortable and stiff. The sun hasn‘t risen, and the rest
area is gray in the predawn light. To the east, the silhouettes of the Cumberland
mountains are dark, yet the sky above them is glowing with yellow and pink and orange.
He turns the key and checks the clock. 6:50 AM. He wonders if there‘s a rule against
parking overnight and worries that he looks suspicious.
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Shivering, he pulls a ragged blanket from behind the seat and runs the engine to
warm the cab. He needs to use the bathroom, but doesn‘t want to leave the truck. The
empty Gatorade bottle is a tempting option: if he covers himself with the blanket, no one
will know, and he won‘t have to face the cold. He‘s done it before — a month back, en
route to the game with Fortstown, when he was running late, desperate, and didn‘t have
time to stop. On a long straightaway, he braced his left leg against the floor, held the
wheel tight, and lifted himself off the seat. It was dangerous, driving that distracted and
contorted, but it was possible. He dumped the bottle out the window. It bothered him for
a day or two — all of his DNA, just blowing in the wind. He wanted to leave his mark
on the world, but that wasn‘t exactly what he had in mind.
In the end, he decides to stop being stupid and hurries to the welcome center. He
lingers in the building‘s warmth and examines the tourist brochures, appalled at the range
of attractions that now envelop the Smokies. He steps outside to call the MCA office and
report that he‘s sick.
Interested in hearing an odd dream that Dave has while sleeping in the truck?
— Not really.
Come on. It‘s about Appalachian hit men who collect other men‘s urine to plant
as misleading DNA evidence at crime scenes.
— Really? That’s what you’re offering me? No thanks.
I‘ll put it in the Bonus Features, just in case you change your mind.
— Fine. Now can we please keep moving, please?
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The Plateau
MILE 160: After the rest area, the road enters a steady rise that lasts for several miles.
The incline is tough on the struggling eighteen-wheelers, and Dave presses the Ranger
hard. He thinks about hills and momentum and life. By the time that he reaches the
summit, his ears are starting to pop.
Gracing the apex is a new exit, built not for an established community, but to call
forth a town from the dust of the earth. It preceded — and enabled — the subdivisions
and vacation homes that are growing like mold on the sides of Jellico Mountain.
Due to legal concerns, the following scene has been deleted:
Dave starts to criticize this reckless construction, but M— F— swoops into the
text, hoping to avoid lawsuits, and explains that they are lovely homes with
glorious views of the Cumberlands. He praises the development, Rarity Ridge,
and thinks about ways to raise cash with his book. If he includes a screen capture
of one of their ads, would they thank him with a modest stipend?
Might it be possible to subsidize the novel through product placement? If
Dave gets thirsty on the trail, he can whip out a bottle of Gatorade, and the
energy from its electrolytes will power him to the peak. In addition to these
written descriptions, the ads hidden within the prose, marketing space could be
sold in the header and footer. In an e-book, the promotions might appear as a
crawler, hyperlinks, or even pop-ups. Dave reclaims control and contemplates
the families in the valley. Because of Rarity Ridge, their porches now look out on
mountain neighborhoods, not on the mountains themselves. He isn’t a treehugger. He’d prefer that the hilltops were undeveloped, but if someone is
destined to own a mountain home, it might as well be him.
The exit is soon far behind, and his troubled thoughts fade. The interstate rides
the crest of the plateau. On either side are remote valleys and distant ridgelines. It is not
true wilderness: the forest isn‘t protected, and roads and houses are scattered throughout
each watershed. Still, the landscape is full of possibility. The future has not been written
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in concrete. The sun is rising. If Dave stares to
the east, it blinds him. He puts a Rich Mullins
CD into the stereo and thanks God for the
views and the land, for the clear weather and
safety throughout the night. To this point, it is
the highlight of his trip.
Descent
MILE 141: Unlike the climb — a single, dramatic haul — the drop from the plateau
occurs in stages. Dave passes the fireworks market and the giant cross, the site of
Rachel‘s XXX. He intends to focus on the spiritual; instead, he thinks about sex. In
particular, a recent, absurd dream in which he and Beth were encased in a mattress.
Separate mattresses, to be precise. Their legs stuck out from the bottom, so they could
waddle around, and their hands extended straight to either side. They could grasp an
object but do little else. The rest of their bodies remained trapped — hidden inside each
mattress, even their faces. The stuffing was thin, admitting a hazy view of the world. It
reminded Dave of the story in which Christ makes two attempts to cure a man‘s
blindness. After the first try, the vision that returns is only partial. The patient sees men
that look like walking trees, and a second procedure takes him to 20/20. The Savior as
eye doctor, Dave thinks. No, the Savior as I-Doctor. He imagines the pun as a sermon
title.
In the dream, you could see shadows and shapes, but they were elusive, like
ghosts in the fog. One of these shapes was a woman. In fact, he somehow knew that she
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was Bethany, stuck in a mattress of her own. They brought their bodies next to one
another, like a bed set standing on end, and tried to align. They attempted to kiss, but
their lips could never touch. They slammed together, and the futile effort merely aroused
their passions.
In the truck, Dave fights the urge to touch himself. He has struggled to break this
habit for years, and it causes him plenty of guilt. He worries that his physical reactions
have been warped and that his marriage bed will suffer as a consequence. He fears that
God will punish him, like the man in Genesis who was killed for spilling his seed on the
ground. The more he frets, the stronger his desire grows.
The Devil‘s Racetrack
MILE 136: The curves on the next descent are tight.
Dave spots a peculiar rock formation to the east. Two
parallel columns descend the hillside like stairs. They
are large but thin — several stories high, yet only a few
feet across — as if the mountain had a twin backbone,
and the tips of the vertebrae had broken through its skin.
Dave prefers an alternate explanation. The rocks are the
armor of a Stegosaurus, the massive plates that protect its
back, and a Jurassic beast is buried within the hill.
According to Grandpa, the formation is known as The Devil‘s Racetrack. They
would pass the formation on trips to the Big South Fork. The rocks were a lesson in
geography, he claimed. If you understood The DR, you could learn a whole lot about
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east Tennessee. You would comprehend the earth beneath your feet. He never explained
the reason for the name. Perhaps it was self-evident. You‘d have to be a maniac —
driven by some type of demon — to hazard a race down that dangerous spine.
Want to know what Dave thinks about next?
— Not really.
Come on. It‘s about Tar Pits Jesus, who calls the Stegosaurus from its grave. He
rides north on the prehistoric steed, stopping to pull His cross from the earth, grip
it upside down, and brandish it like a sword. They target Noah‘s (theme p)Ark,
bent on destruction.
— Isn’t that going a step too far?
I suppose. Some things are too hard to believe, even when they happen to be true.
Dave stops at Lake City for gas and a coffee. He spots neither lake nor city.
Grandpa said that its name was once Coal Creek. At the beginning of the previous
century, a massive explosion had ripped through a local mine. Over two hundred
workers died in the tragedy. In a nearby town, only a handful of men had survived. In an
instant, it was changed to a village of widows.
Cain and Rachel
MILE 117: Dave approaches the outskirts of Knoxville. The valley is foreign to him,
which is odd, given the family so near. This city belongs to Rachel. After high school,
she began taking classes at Pellissippi State. Dave had encouraged her to try Maryville
College or the University of Tennessee. He thought about mentioning Carson-Newman,
but knew her opinion of Christian schools. His sister ignored the advice. She didn‘t want
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to attend a small, local college — not Maryville or Tallassee — and she wasn‘t prepared
for the Big Orange Kool-Aid. She still wasn‘t used to the Volunteer spirit. The fans in
Midfield had been divided: large numbers of Buckeyes, but Ann Arbor was only two
hours north, so the Michigan faction was also strong. Others stood by the Bowling Green
Falcons. Same with the pros. The loyalty was splintered: Cleveland, Cincinnati,
Indianapolis, Detroit.
Not in Blount County. Babies were swaddled in Volunteer Orange. Trucks were
adorned with the power T. Rachel was skeptical of blind allegiance in any guise, a
natural byproduct of early exposure to Mr. Pete and MCA. She attended Pellissippi on a
part-time basis, commuting to Knoxville from Maryville. In the summers, she drove east
to Townsend and worked seasonal jobs that followed the tourists, like mushrooms that
sprout after rain. She had waitressed in restaurants, cleaned rental properties, and ran a
shuttle for inner tube trips on the Little River.
In time, she moved to Knoxville and transferred to Tennessee. Based on the
stories she told, she even attended a football game. The tailgates were impressive, she
said, the quantity of beer that could swamp a dry campus. She made friends in the
Outdoor Recreation Program. They taught her to kayak, and she caught on fast. She
talked about learning to guide on the Nantahala or the Ocoee. She went rock climbing
and backpacking, frequenting many of Grandpa‘s favorite sights, and looked into taking a
course at the NOLS, the National Outdoor Leadership School. She bounced among
majors: Nursing, Forestry, Geology, and Criminal Forensics, examining the decomposing
corpses on UT‘s famous body farm. In the end, however, she was drawn to the woods
and decided to study Outdoors Education.
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―I thought that you hated Education,‖ said Dave. ―When I became a teacher, you
claimed it was one thing you‘d never do.‖
Don‘t be certain about anything, she said. Besides, Outdoors Education wasn‘t
like Education Education. You weren‘t stuck in a classroom, almost as bored as your
students. ―It‘s more like Grandpa — you know, wading in creeks and learning about
crawdads and salamanders, how the ecosystem works.‖
Dave disagreed. She‘d teach plenty of slackers who yawned at her lessons. Kids
were interested in game systems, not ecosystems. The forest was too muggy. They
preferred the crisp resolution of high-definition monitors.
In secret, he agreed with her choice. Like Cain, like the Prodigal‘s brother, like
Judah and Reuben and Simeon and all of Joseph‘s rivals — in short, like older brothers
throughout history — his envy increased as his sister grew into her life.
She lived on trails, rivers, and cliffs. When she wasn‘t in the woods, she worked
as a bartender in the Old City. The music was loud, the wallets open, and the heads of
the patrons turned as she passed. She had probably graduated and not told anyone. That
would be like her, claiming the diploma in secret, satisfied in her own accomplishment.
He doesn‘t know much about her life, not anymore. He doubts that she still
attends church. Like Mom, she probably retains a belief in a God — she just doesn‘t
think that churches are places you‘ll find Him. She has talked about moving, but always
seems drawn to Knoxville. She likes the location, and Mom and Grandpa are close. Her
brother suspects a deeper reason: she still feels guilt about the Middle Prong, and she
doesn‘t intend to leave Grandpa again.
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The City of Giant Balls
MILE 108: I-75 exits for the west,
but Dave heads straight ahead on I275. Grandpa often bemoaned the
poor layout of Knoxville‘s
interstates: how the outer belt, I-640,
was only a few miles north of the
congestion it tried to skirt, how it reentered too soon to be useful. Now a
second bypass would be needed in
the future. Do something right the
first time, he said. Otherwise, don’t
do it at all.
A few curves later, Dave spots the Sunsphere. The massive, gold-plated dome
rests on a pedestal that rises above World‘s Fair Park, the symbol of that international
extravaganza. Three things strike him as odd: 1) that as recent as 1982, there was still a
demand for such massive structures; 2) that World‘s Fairs continue to be held, given the
neverending spectacle on the television and internet; and 3) that such an extravaganza
had decided to grace Knoxville, Tennessee.
He cannot see it, but on the other side of downtown is the Women‘s Basketball
Hall of Fame. It also features a sphere on a pedestal: the largest basketball in the world,
505
weighing more than ten tons. Along with the Sunsphere, it has inspired Rachel‘s
nickname for her chosen town: The City of Giant Balls.
Dave makes a short jog east on I-40, hits the exit for US 129 south, and slips past
the massive apartment towers at the University of Tennessee. Neyland Stadium is visible
in the distance, and the road crosses Lake Loudon and the Tennessee River. In a few
more miles, he will enter Blount County. Chilhowee Mountain will be visible in the
distance. He‘ll pass Maryville and begin the last leg of his journey south.
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SECTION VII: ENTER THE DRAGON
In which we finally return to The Dragon‘s Brew
What .. . the . . . hell? — Randy — S- N- L- — Trail Names — Journeyman Hitters —
Namesakes — The Wellspring of Mountains — Advice — Double Suck — A Flatwater
Roll — Panther Creek — A Complicated Plan — Randy’s Solution — To Be Continued
LENGTH: It‘s not the miles, it‘s the curves.
HIGHLIGHTS: Randy & the Dragon
CAUTIONS: See HIGHLIGHTS
TRAILHEAD: The Dragon‘s Brew
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A Rude Awakening
The sunlight was hot on Dave‘s neck. He cradled his head in his arms and
inhaled through his nostrils, catching scent of his body, the reek from a night in the truck.
He wondered how long he‘d been sleeping — arched his back, stretched, yawned. The
smell of coffee and bacon filled the room. In the kitchen, Emily was running water and
moving dishes.
―Morning, partner.‖
Dave paused: one arm crooked, the other locked straight. A strange man in
aviator sunglasses was sitting at his table: a paperback in one hand, the remnants of an
egg sandwich in the other. ―Welcome back to the land of the living.‖
Dave‘s own food had disappeared. He guessed that it hadn‘t gone far. The
stranger savored one last bite. He licked grease from his fingers.
―What the hell?‖ Dave asked.
―Amen.‖ The man lifted a mug in salute. ―What . . . the . . . hell.‖
―No. What the hell? As in, that’s my sandwich you just ate.‖
―And I agreed with you: What . . . the . . . hell!?‖ He pounded the table with the
book, stressing each word with his fist. A thumb marked his page in the volume. Coffee
sloshed from Dave‘s cup, and he snatched at the rocking beverage.
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In a single, smooth motion, the man ripped a knit cap off his head and wiped it
across the table. The fabric was hunter orange. Water-resistant, apparently, because it
spread the liquid rather than absorbing it. He swore once and left to gather napkins.
Dave glanced around The Dragon‘s Brew, hoping that someone had noticed his
predicament. But Harold and Andy were sleeping; Deacon‘s nose was buried in his
work. The stranger returned to mop the spill. His dark hair was greasy and disheveled,
sticking in three or four directions. He sniffed at the hat and crammed it down a pocket
on his canvas jacket.
―What—‖ Too many questions sprung to Dave‘s mind. He couldn‘t pick which
one to ask.
―Precisely.‖ The man sat down, cleaned the table, and stacked the dirty napkins in
a small pyramid. ―Couldn‘t have worded it better myself. What kind of land have you
opened your eyes to discover? What kind of world run amok?‖ He bent forward and
whispered, sharing an intimate secret. ―What kind of God lets one man snatch food off
his brother‘s plate?‖ He crossed his arms and leaned back, struck by a new dilemma.
―Then again, how do you know I was eating your sandwich?‖
―What?‖
―It‘s a quandary, my friend. You might have misread our little scene.‖ He
removed his sunglasses and pointed them at Dave, stressing his observations. Something
inside his brown eyes glistened. ―Suppose that was my sandwich, not yours. A half hour
back, Emily tossed your remnants to the birds, offended you hadn‘t finished.‖
―I fell asleep.‖ His anxiety began to rise, and he scanned the walls for a clock.
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―Exactly. You‘re the least reliable witness in the room, moving through life with
your eyes closed like that.‖ At the next table, Deacon‘s shoulders had started to quiver.
―Thus I beseech you: consider the situation as I arrived, eager to savor the java and mind
my own business. But lo! At a far table, an unfamiliar patron had fallen asleep, far too
tuckered to enjoy his breakfast sandwich. Now — and please, follow my logic here —
now that in itself would be tragic, a humanitarian crisis that screamed for intervention.‖
Deacon‘s laughter had grown more distinct, and the stranger took offense. ―I fail
to grasp the humor, Doctor Mitchell. Take your standard-issue, B & E biscuit. It suffers
a rapid decline in quality as its temperature begins to drop. By yielding to his siesta, our
young hombre created a moral predicament. He forced me to make an unpleasant but
necessary choice: disrupt his tranquil nap, or take matters into my own hands.‖
―Into your hands. Literally, in this case,‖ observed Deacon.
―Correct. Occam‘s razor.‖ He turned back to Dave. ―Now, just for the sake of
argument, let us imagine an alternate scenario. Suppose I wasn‘t the first to spot your
helpless state. Suppose — by the time I entered this precious room — a local roughneck
had already weaseled his way to your table and consumed your sandwich. Not to
preserve its quality, but to persecute a stranger. In fact, he was reaching for your coffee
when I stepped to your defense. A sandwich can be replaced, but a coffee.‖ He shook
his head at the dreadful thought. ―Later, famished from the confrontation, I ordered a
sandwich of my own. What if I‘m your savior, mate? Have you stopped to think about
that? Even heroes need to eat.‖
―But I saw you,‖ Dave said. ―When I woke, you were eating my sandwich.‖
510
―We‘re stuck at an ontological impasse. Because I repeat . . . how do you know I
was eating your sandwich?‖
He must have wrecked. On the interstate, perhaps. The scrape with the USPS.
The Dragon‘s Brew was a level of Purgatory, where day after day, the cast rehearsed its
eternal monologue. Each time a fresh victim entered its doors, the cycle resumed. It was
the only plausible explanation. Because places like this, they simply didn‘t exist.
The stranger smiled, revealing a sliver of teeth, and Dave pictured a Venus FlyTrap and other carnivorous plants. His options were limited. He could endure this
charade, or he could escalate the confrontation. He didn‘t know much about fighting.
That swing at the Coldwater coach was the first punch he‘d thrown in a decade.
The stranger was wiry — about Dave‘s weight, but taller. He carried himself
without fear. He might even be a touch insane, the last person you‘d want to battle.
Dave could snitch, of course — call Emily over and whine. But the man carried
himself like a regular. A complaint might provoke the entire room. Besides, why was he
even taking this trip, if he ran from every challenge? He rationalized the problem, his
traditional mode of escape. It wasn‘t that big a deal, because he didn‘t really need the
entire sandwich. It would be slow to digest, a lump in his stomach the entire hike.
―Why not restore the lost property?‖ asked Deacon. ―That‘s what I don‘t
understand.‖
―Excuse me?‖ asked the stranger.
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―Isn‘t that the difference between heroes and vigilantes? A vigilante simply
punishes the criminal. The victim gets nothing but revenge. A hero defeats the villain, of
course. Yet he also assists the powerless and helps them begin to recover.‖
The man dismissed Deacon with a wave. ―I said I might be his savior. I never
claimed to be a saint.‖
The dark glasses lay on the table. Without them, the man lost a fraction of his
edge. He was probably in his early thirties — like Bethany, a few years older than Dave.
Shave the stubble and comb the hair, swap his camouflaged shirt for a collar and tie? He
could pass for a teacher at MCA.
―Like what you see?‖ the man asked.
―You look like someone I know.‖
―I doubt that.‖ The man turned his face from side to side, flaunting a sharp and
angular profile. ―Not many folks in Tennessee look this fine, let alone in O-hi-o. Y‘all
lack our mountain air that braces the sinews on a manly man.‖ He set down the book and
thumped on his chest. He sang the state‘s name as a chant, the low tune of the witch‘s
soldiers in The Wizard of Oz: ―O-hi-O, O-hiiii-O. O-hi-O, O-hiiii-O.‖
―Jesus Christ.‖ Emily had stolen close.
―I know,‖ said Deacon. ―He‘s in rare form today.‖
―Not simply today, my friends.‖ The man leaned back and stretched his arms,
welcoming their gaze. The wingspan emphasized his gangly frame. ―This form is
always rare.‖
―Wait,‖ said Dave. ―Why did you say Ohio?‖
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The man raised his eyebrows. He feigned alarm and gasped. ―Why? Is the
Buckeye state a verboten topic?‖
―No, I just wondered—‖
―Ohio! Ohio! Ohio!‖ the man cried. He adopted a fake Southern accent and
raised his hands in the air, a Pentecostal minister in the throes of the Spirit. ―I rebuke the
demons of the north, who carry their retirement funds to our impoverished land. Who
steal the mountaintop views that belong to our children and their children‘s children and
the children of their children‘s children, God bless their innocent souls.‖
―Amen,‖ muttered Deacon. ―Yankee bastards.‖
―But . . . how do you know I‘m from Ohio?‖
The man paused and examined Dave for a second. ―Your lack of distinguishing
characteristics.‖
―Randall,‖ said Emily. ―Play nice.‖
―Your license plate, man. Ohio . . .‖ — he drew a hand through the air,
recounting a marquee — ―The Birthplace of Aviation! No matter what Kitty Hawk,
North Carolina, claims. You know, on that cute little Ranger in the parking lot, between
the F250s, those weapons of global warming that Harold and Andy drive?‖
A cry emerged from the depths of an armchair: ―Move back to Asheville, you
hippie.‖
Emily gathered Dave‘s plate. ―I see you enjoyed the sandwich.‖
―You‘re asking the wrong person,‖ said Deacon.
―What‘s that?‖
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―Our unfortunate guest made a poor decision and fell asleep.‖
―Randall.‖ Emily looked at the stranger, clearly annoyed. She waved the empty
plate near his face. ―Not with the customers, I said.‖
He shrugged. ―S- N- L-‖
―Only with Harold.‖ She told Dave that she‘d fix him a new sandwich. He tried
to protest, but to no avail. ―Randall‘s treat.‖ She turned for the kitchen before either
could object.
―Hey, Em–,‖ called Randall.
She paused at the door. ―What now, dear?‖ There was weariness in her voice.
―Could we get a pair of egg sandwiches out here? Some bastard‘s been stealing
our food.‖
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Q— & A— at The D— B—
1.
―What‘s S- N- L-?‖ asked Dave.
Randall set down his paperback. They were waiting on Emily and their
replacement sandwiches. ―Saturday Night Live. It‘s pretty well known, even in Ohio.‖
―No, you said—‖
―Snooze and Lose,‖ explained Deacon. ―Randall here—‖
―Wait, wait, wait, wait.‖ Randall shook a hand and forced Deacon to stop.
―Emily is permitted to call me Randall, nobody else.‖ He spoke toward the kitchen.
―Even she’s on thin ice.‖
Deacon grunted. ―Fine. Any time Harold falls asleep, Randy swipes the
leftovers.‖
―I don‘t swipe them. I glean them.‖
―What‘s the difference?‖ Dave asked.
―Precedent. Biblical precedent.‖
Deacon‘s response was crisp. ―The same could be said about stoning, you know.‖
2.
The book‘s title was embossed in gold: Track of the Cat. The cover featured a
desert landscape and a rock pinnacle. ―The Guadalupe Mountains,‖ said Randy.
―Murder and mountain lions.‖
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3.
―What‘s your name, stranger?‖
―Dave.‖
Randy wiped a hand on his jacket and reached across the table. They shook.
―Dave what?‖
―Kingman.‖
―Pleased to meet you, Dave Kingman.‖
Dave returned the question, but Randy refused. ―Not today, Kingman. Not until
you‘ve earned it.‖ He always held tight to his name, he said. When you scatter that type
of information, you dilute its power. Recognition limits your independence, and fame
brings captivity. ―The more strangers learn about you, the more control they possess.‖
Only your closest friends should know your actual name: ―two or three people at the
most.‖
―Like copies of your house key,‖ suggested Deacon.
―Exactly. But one of them . . . one should be given a decoy.‖
―You asked my name,‖ said Dave.
―Isn‘t it obvious? I wanted the control.‖
4.
Customers trickled through the doors. A local touched his cap and nodded at
Harold and Andy. A lost father asked directions to the Foothills Parkway. Bikers in
leather jackets paused at a table of merchandise in the corner. They strode onto the
porch, drinks steaming in the morning air. Dave wondered if Harleys had cup holders.
One of them rummaged in a saddlebag. He poured his coffee into a thermos, while his
partner took one last sip before tossing the dregs.
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Emily waved as they straddled their Hogs. The engines fired, shaking the
windows, and the roar lingered, long after the bikers had disappeared. They were headed
for Lake Chilhowee and Deals Gap, according to Deacon.
―Enter the Dragon,‖ whispered Randy.
5.
Randy pushed back his chair. ―Time to drain the main vein,‖ he announced.
6.
―It‘s not even his real name,‖ said Deacon.
―What? Randy?‖
―It‘s his trail name. You know, from the Appalachian Trail. Every thru-hiker
gets one.‖
Dave knew about trail names from Grandpa. Hikers could abandon their
identities at the trailhead, dropping their past as they lifted their packs When they laced
their boots, they tied on a disguise as well.
―So what‘s his real name?‖
Deacon shrugged.
―You don‘t know, or you won‘t tell?‖
7.
Most of the thru-hikers travelled north. They followed the thaw to New England,
passing through Tennessee in March or April. A smaller contingent made southbound
attempts. In the fall, they finally reached the Smokies.
―Randy‘s hiking the trail?‖ Dave asked.
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―A few years back,‖ said Deacon. ―But you‘re named for life. Like being a
Marine, I suppose. You‘ve heard that old saying: Once a Marine, Always a Marine.‖
Dave shook his head. ―Grandpa was Army.‖
―You‘ll never meet an ex-Marine. Same with thru-hikers. Those that finish, at
least.‖
8.
You don‘t get to pick your name, explained Randy. You receive it. ―Blister.
Bootstrap. The Loco Locomotive.‖ He was listing the hikers he met on the trail.
―Marathon Man. The Beltway Boys. Dorothy, Scarecrow, and Tin Cup.‖
―No Cowardly Lion?‖ asked Deacon.
―Quit in Georgia — busted out near Hiawassee, less than a hundred miles from
Springer Mountain.‖ This other dude, annoying as hell, he caught up with their pack and
tried calling himself The Wizard. ―Whenever he reached the top of a climb — even a
small, insignificant rise — this asshole would shout, I am the great and powerful Oz!‖
But naming yourself was a serious No-No. ―We christened him Toto.‖ Randy shook his
head and laughed. ―Which pissed him off fierce, knowing he‘d carry that name the entire
trail.‖ It would be passed along from hiker to hiker, inscribed for posterity in logbooks at
each shelter. In the end, poor old Toto had dropped behind and disappeared.
―Mousetrap. Pop-Tart and Little Debbie. Apple Dumpling. Sweet Cheeks — not
the cheeks on your face, mind you.‖ The names were exotic, a world apart from
Midfield: the host of Matthews and Jennifers to the North. The mountains were
swarming with characters.
―What about Randy?‖ asked Dave. ―Who named you?‖
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Randy leaned across the table. ―Let‘s just say . . . that I earned it.‖
9.
―Kingman, you said? Dave Kingman?‖ asked Randy. ―Wasn‘t he a baseball
player, back in the 70s or 80s?‖
For the Cubs, Dave said. The Mets. Bunch of teams.
―Right, right, right — journeyman hitter.‖
―I didn‘t know that you cared about sports,‖ said Deacon.
―Not anymore, I don‘t. But I owned baseball cards as a kid. You know, back in
the dark ages, B.V.G. — Before Video Games.‖
10.
Dave‘s own collection had been modest, a single shoebox of Topps and Donruss,
yet he devoured each back like a sacred text. It was something about the statistics: a
season compressed to a single line of figures, an entire career to a pocket-sized matrix.
The numbers and abbreviations were like hieroglyphs, an obscure code that recorded the
feats of modern gods.
Sixty-two steals and eighteen triples? The player had speed. He was aggressive,
stretching bunts into runs and singles into victories. He spooked the defense into errors.
A strong average with an impressive OBP? Abundant walks and rare strikeouts?
The batter was patient, fouling off junk as he looked for the pitch he wanted. The man
was steady. He possessed a clear eye.
As a boy, Dave had dreamed of a life on the diamond, usually as the centerfielder
for the Cincinnati Reds. He had filled a notebook with fictional stats and calculated his
lifetime averages. Each career he devised had a similar arc: 1. Early success and
519
recognition. 2. Arrogance that led to mediocrity. 3. A bittersweet comeback. A solid
player, yet a touch disappointing, given that initial promise. A respectable career, but
never enough for the Hall of Fame. Even in daydreams, he achieved less than his full
potential.
A few years back, Dave had designed a card for his actual life — an unusual
attempt at a New Year‘s Resolution, the statistics based on his daily activities: books
read, hours slept, miles hiked, tests graded. By the end of January, he had abandoned the
project. First of all, selecting the categories had been overwhelming. Consider the
possible options — women kissed, calories eaten, bills paid, lonely nights, dollars earned
— not to mention the colossal task of keeping an accurate tally. Recording the results
was a giant time suck: you could accomplish your goals, or you could chart them, but you
couldn‘t do both. Also, no matter the divisions he selected, the results were certain to
depress.
11.
―Was he any good?‖ asked Deacon. ―He must have been good, to play in the
major leagues. Compared to his peers, I mean?‖
―He was a power hitter. He could smack that ball a country mile.‖ Dave could
still recall the trivia from his stockpile of Kingman cards, which made easy presents for
friends and relatives who thought they were being original. ―At one time, he had a record
for the longest home run at Wrigley Field.‖
―That‘s right,‖ said Randy. ―The Sky King.‖
―He knocked a pop fly so high, it actually hit the ceiling of the Metrodome — a
once-in-a-lifetime ground-rule double.‖
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―Long arms, like a gorilla.‖ Randy emphasized the point with his own gangly
limbs. ―When he made contact, that ball was gone.‖
―When he made contact.‖ It was the problem with Kingman. If he connected,
kiss that sucker good-bye. But he also knew how to swing and miss. He sometimes led
the league in strikeouts.
Deacon wasn‘t impressed. He preferred a steady bat, a player who worked the
percentages and reached base on a consistent basis. Dave tended to agree.
Not Randy. ―No guts, no glory.‖ When he stepped to the plate, he wanted the
entire stadium to pay attention.
―Even if you miss?‖ asked Dave.
―Even when I miss.‖
12.
Emily slid the plates onto the table. ―I‘m adding these to your tab,‖ she told
Randy.
―Along with my many sins.‖
Dave glanced at the food with a wary eye. He would eat enough to be polite, but
not much more.
―I see you‘ve made nice,‖ said Emily.
―Our new friend is named after a ballplayer,‖ Deacon said. ―Dave Kingman.‖
―Never heard of him. I know Peyton Manning, that‘s about it.‖
―That‘s not even the right sport.‖
―I wasn‘t actually named for him.‖ Mom had disliked organized sports. In fact,
when she learned about the overlap, she was extremely vexed. She even talked about
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changing it. Later, that thought disturbed him, the notion of travelling through life with a
name that didn‘t fit you.
13.
Randy lifted his sandwich. ―To Second Breakfast. And to our new friend, Dave
Kingman, who — despite popular opinion — was not actually named for his namesake.‖
―Second Breakfast,‖ Dave repeated.
―A toast with toast,‖ said Deacon.
―With biscuits, you mean,‖ said Emily. ―A toast with bacon.‖
14.
―So who were you named for?‖ Emily asked. ―A father? An uncle?‖
―What is this?‖ Deacon said. ―Twenty Questions?‖
―Polite conversation. It‘s something we do in the South.‖
―We‘re not in the South. We‘re in Appalachia.‖
―Then call it a customer survey.‖
―So what do you do in Appalachia?‖ asked Dave.
Randy formed his right hand into a pistol. He closed an eye and aimed at Dave,
who experienced a sense of déjà vu. Randy fired once and blew smoke from the barrel.
―We raise hell.‖
15.
In the end, they decided that Dave had been named for the Israelite ruler: for
David, the shepherd who was king.
Randy warned him about chasing married women. Deacon said to avoid sons
named Absalom. Emily lamented the double standard for the sexes: how it was socially
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acceptable to name a child for the man who committed the adultery — in fact, there were
far more Davids than Uriahs, that poor cuckold who died as the king screwed his wife.
Yet what parents would dream about naming their daughter Bathsheba? The mother of
Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived, and the great-great-great-great-great-greatgreat-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-greatgreat-great-great-great-grandmother of Christ.
16.
Dave couldn‘t stop eating. Out of habit, he devoured the entire sandwich.
Deacon raised an eyebrow when he saw the empty plate. Dave felt bloated. He thought
of the coffee and the biscuit churning in his stomach. During intense storms, the drain in
the parking lot at Shady Grove would clog with debris and overflow. The water was light
brown, the color of a latte. Topped with oil, not whipped cream, it would inch up the
tires on nearby cars. The image did nothing to help his indigestion.
He wanted a shower. His body felt coated with grease. His arms were sticky, and
his crotch itched. He would probably chafe on the trail. More than anything, he longed
to return to sleep, but he had to keep moving, to cross into North Carolina and finally
start this damn hike. Yet the laws of physics were set against him: he had lost the
momentum and now lacked the energy to break his own inertia. He could not work free
of The Dragon‘s Brew.
He wandered away from the table. A newspaper article had been framed and
hung on the wall: a local review, ―A Toast to the Roast.‖ Dave skimmed the opening
paragraphs and turned to Deacon, who was gauging his reaction. ―This place doesn‘t
seem real,‖ he said.
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Deacon eased back in his chair. ―Why the hell would that matter?‖ he asked.
―What the hell does that have to do with anything?‖
17.
The warrior had a prodigious bosom. Bands of iron rimmed her wooden shield
and reinforced its center, where a formidable spike dared opponents to risk a charge. She
raised a spear above her head, stressing her muscular bicep. Her leather armor was
skintight, and a mane of black hair billowed out from her face. In short, she appeared to
be a cross between a Norse goddess and a lonely artist‘s wet dream.
She straddled the dragon bareback. Her powerful thighs clenched its withers in
their vice, and the beast reared, its head pointed to the sky. Flames were erupting from its
nostrils. They formed a fiery script — ―Ride the Dragon‖ — that arced across the top of
the poster. Its whiplash tail became the road itself. The map identified turns on the
legendary route: The Pearly Gates, Copperhead Corner, Gravity Cavity, Brake or Bust
Bend.
Randy appeared at his shoulder. ―What do you think?‖ He traced the erratic line
of Highway 129 with a finger.
―That the surveyors were schizophrenic. Either that, or some joker stole the
construction plans and swapped them with an EKG.‖
Randy laughed. ―Your heart will be racing, that‘s for sure. Heart racing, body
shaking.‖ He pointed to the warrior goddess. ―What about her?‖
Dave shrugged.
―I know. This poster‘s a cheap imitation. After you pass through Deal‘s Gap,
stop at the Tail of the Dragon and check out their version.‖ A low whistle signaled his
524
awe. ―The demon on their poster doesn‘t ride a dragon: she becomes one. Woman on
top, but after her waist, she turns into a monster. Compared to her, Amazon here is a
Disney Princess.‖
18.
Half of the souvenir table was devoted to all things cycle. The knick-knacks
ranged from key chains to whips, but they all shared a common theme: the road as a
dragon, the bikers as knights riding steel horses. Guidebooks described the best routes in
the region, and bumper stickers — DRAGON RIDER; HOG WILD; MY OTHER CAR IS A
CHOPPER — let middle-class riders slap proof of their wild side on Honda Accords back
home.
For some reason — probably the medieval drift in the merchandise — Dave
began thinking about the Crusades and soldiers who paused to loot towns, hauling relics
and treasures through Europe. The price they had paid was almost as large as Emily‘s
mark-up. A knight stuck a bumper sticker on his mount. Next to him, a squire‘s boon
worn atop his chain mail: ―My Lord sacked Jerusalem, and all I got was this lousy tshirt.‖ Well, a t-shirt and a venereal disease.
19.
The rest of the table featured the Smokies. The silkscreens were gaudy and
dramatic: a buck in a forest glen, a bear with a sunset in the backdrop, a ridgeline
bursting with autumn colors, a doe with her fawn. Trail guides spoke of waterfalls,
historic buildings, and wildflower hikes.
525
One of the volumes appeared out-of-place. An academic tome, it chronicled the
history of a local watershed. The author was listed as Ralph Mitchell, but ―Deacon‖ had
been added with a marker.
―Our resident celebrity,‖ said Randy.
―Deacon?‖ Dave glanced across the room, where the scholar was tackling his
next stack of work. It was actually a touch disappointing, watching the process behind
the product. Dave wanted a book about mountains to be written on site — deep in the
forest, dictated from muses in a babbling stream — not researched near seniors who
snored away the morning.
Perhaps writing a book was like hiking an Appalachian mountain. It didn‘t take
daring risks or technical prowess, nothing but dull determination: the stubborn ability to
put one foot in front of the other, again and again and again and again.
You didn‘t rope yourself onto some rocky crag and look down on the clouds in
triumph. You took a long walk uphill — surrounded by foliage that hid your objective —
and you stopped for lunch when you reached the top.
Dave picked up a trail guide and flipped to the table of contents. Randy took the
book and replaced it with Hiking Trails of the Smokies, a tan volume the size of an index
card. It was thick: hundreds of onion-skin pages. ―The little brown turd,‖ Randy said.
―Most every trail in the park.‖ What‘s more, since you probably wouldn‘t hike every
trail, if you were stuck in the woods and desperate for TP, you always had a convenient
source: simply choose a path that you didn‘t intend to hike.
Dave scanned the index for Shuckstack. ―What are you looking for?‖ asked
Randy. ―Waterfalls? Elk? Chicks?‖
526
―Shuckstack.‖ Dave hadn‘t planned to reveal his destination, but it seemed to slip
out of its own volition.
―Appalachian Trail.‖ Randy flipped the pages. ―The section from Fontana Dam
to Doe Knob, I think.‖
Dave winced at the elevation profile. A modest but steady climb at the start,
growing steeper and steeper as the summit neared. Randy pointed to the last, nearvertical stretch. It wasn‘t actually that ridiculous, he claimed. The slope had been
modified in newer editions of the guidebook. ―Don‘t get me wrong,‖ he said. ―Your
thighs will still be burning. You just won‘t need climbing rope.‖
20.
―Samuel Walker,‖ said Emily. ―Isn‘t that some kind of beer?‖
―You‘re thinking of Sam Adams,‖ Deacon said.
In less than five minutes, they had unraveled most of Dave‘s story. Randy had
questioned his interest in Shuckstack. It was a decent peak, but nothing like Thunderhead
or LeConte — nothing to draw a pilgrim from Ohio, given its inconvenient location.
Dave tried to invent a reason — a fascination with fire towers, curiosity about the
name — but nothing sounded right. So he admitted the personal connection. He tried to
downplay its significance: a long time ago, he had hiked to the tower with his
grandfather. Now, he wanted to see it again.
The plan would have been better, said Randy, if the tower was in North Carolina,
the actual Grandfather Mountain. More symbolic. Or King‘s Mountain: King‘s
Mountain for a Kingman.
Wrong side of the family, said Dave. ―Grandpa was a Walker. Samuel Walker.‖
527
―Grandpa was a Walker?‖ Randy gave him a skeptical look. ―You really expect
me to believe that? That your grandfather who loves to hike, his last name happens to be
Walker?‖
The conversation snagged Deacon‘s attention. ―I knew a Sam Walker in
Maryville. A newspaperman, back when the local papers had honest-to-God writers on
their staffs, not interns who troll the web, looking for stories to plagiarize.‖
―You know everyone in Maryville,‖ said Emily. ―You‘re the most social
misanthrope I know.‖
Deacon ignored the comment. Sam had helped with the book on the Little River.
―He had visited some of the oldest inhabitants in the park, the settlers with lifetime
leases.‖ Most of them passed away before Deacon started to write, and Sam had been
gracious enough to loan him the transcripts. ―Good man,‖ said Deacon. ―Not that I
know him very well.‖
For once on the trip, Dave managed to hold his tongue. He didn‘t want to justify
himself: why he was travelling to Tennessee to hike a mountain, yet skipping an easy
detour to see the person who first led him to that summit. The logic involved — the strict
timetable, the need to challenge the tower on his own — he doubted this gang would
approve.
The moment was dangerous, and Deacon was close to a connection. On one of
their hikes, Sam had brought along his grandson: ―little squirt, always trying to match us
stride for stride.‖ He paused, watching if Dave would respond.
528
―How about it?‖ asked Emily. ―Any long-lost roots in Tennessee?‖ She was
excited. One false move, and she‘d hit the phone in an instant — calling Grandpa and
Mom and half of Blount County to get themselves to The Dragon‘s Brew.
Dave held a poker face. Grandpa was from Hocking County, he said. Back in
Ohio. They had visited Shuckstack during school vacations. Both of the statements were
true — technically, at least.
Emily was disappointed. ―Ah well. That would have been nice, a reunion of old
hiking partners. Think of the odds.‖ The idea tickled her fancy. ―It would have been
something — a story you‘d read in a book, like the prodigal son coming home. The type
of thing that was so improbable, you weren‘t allowed to make it up.‖
529
The Wellspring of Mountains:
A History of the Little River Watershed
Ralph Mitchell
530
The Little River draws its strength from the mountains, gathering creeks that drop from
the north slope of Thunderhead, Siler’s Bald, and Clingman’s Dome. It descends past the
Sinks, joins forces with Laurel Creek at the Townsend Wye, and exits the Smokies through
Tuckaleechee Cove. Its length is modest, only fifty-one miles from its headwaters to the
Tennessee River, but abundant with natural beauty and historic landmarks.
The river moves across the land, but time flows past the river. The first inhabitants
arrived in the valley as early as 10,000 BC, granting the nearby mountains a significant
distinction: the region of our planet with the longest continuous human habitation.
Millennia later, around 1000 AD, the Cherokee began hunting in Cades Cove. In the
eighteenth century, Scotch-Irish immigrants drifted south, following the valleys of the
Alleghenies to a new set of highlands. Each wave of settlers brought change, but the
greatest impact came from the Little River Lumber Company, whose logging operations
stripped the hillsides at the turn of the century. In 1934, after years of vigorous debate,
President Roosevelt dedicated Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
In The Wellspring of Mountains: A History of the Little River Watershed, Ralph Mitchell
narrates the fascinating history of this region by telling the story of a river. Opening with
the geology and geography that define the area, dictating the pace and style of its
development, Mitchell describes the earliest residents, the turmoil of recent centuries, and
current issues that will shape the river’s future. Relying on primary sources whenever
possible — letters, photographs, and archeological ruins — Mitchell has composed an
intricate portrait of this complex and captivating watershed.
“Mitchell knows more about the Little River than anyone you’re likely to meet. At times
he’s a scientist, waxing eloquent on the geological distinction between the upper and
lower watersheds. Then he becomes an economist, describing the importance of the band
saw to revolutions in the lumber industry. Throughout this fine history, Mitchell is
preacher and prophet, reminding the nation of its natural heritage, its ecological sins, and
the possibility — as the second growth throughout the Smokies demonstrates — that it’s
not too late to change our course.”
— William Meyers, President of the Smoky Mountain Heritage Foundation
“The product of countless hours of research, both in the stacks of the library and the
hollows of the mountains. Detective story and adventure tale, elegy and celebration, this
fascinating book is a labor of love, born of a passion for this region and a desire to
preserve its future.”
— Betty Donaldson, author of Tuckaleechee Childhood and Cades Cove: Then and Now
Ralph Mitchell was born in South Knoxville, where he attended Doyle High School. He graduated
from Carson-Newman College and received his M.A. and Ph.D. from the University of Tennessee.
He now teaches at Talassee College, the Horace Kephardt Chair in the Department of History.
Catamount Press
Maryville, Tennessee
531
Advice
―Take your time,‖ said Emily. ―Don‘t let anyone rush you.‖
Pull to the side for the faster vehicles, Deacon advised. ―You don‘t want to slow
traffic for miles.‖
Randy disagreed. ―You can‘t stop for every bike that rides your tail. You‘ll
never get to Shuckstack if you do.‖
―But stop if the traffic makes you nervous,‖ Emily said. ―Don‘t get distracted by
the rearview mirror.‖
―Forget the mirror,‖ insisted Randy. Watch the mirrors, and you‘ll drive straight
off the road. ―Crack the window, and listen for bikes as they approach. You‘ll hear
them before you see them.‖
Dave was prepared for a handful of tips, not this avalanche of information. He
wanted to talk about the trail, but the conversation was stalled on US 129, a few miles
down the road, the stretch of highway known as The Dragon. They quoted its statistics:
318 curves in a 10-mile stretch, winding along finger ridges in a narrow stretch of land
between the park boundary and the Little Tennessee. They warned about its dangers:
the number of wrecks each week, the fatalities per year.
Deacon and Randy argued about times — the fastest that anyone had ever
covered that route. Randy claimed it was under eight minutes, which Deacon
532
considered impossible. ―You‘d have to average eighty miles an hour,‖ he said. ―If you
took each hairpin at forty, you‘d need to accelerate to 120 on the straightaways.‖
―That‘s precisely what I‘m saying. Some of these boys, they ride their crotch
rockets at speeds that would blow your mind.‖
According to Randy, some bikers had raced it hundreds of times. Thousands,
even. They memorized each curve, each dip in the pavement. They checked websites
for current conditions. They could follow the road in their sleep.
―Wave and be polite,‖ said Emily. ―Especially to passengers. You know what I
love? The sidecars with the senior citizens. Granny riding on the side, raising hell on
the mountain roads.‖
―Stop at the overlook for Calderwood Dam,‖ suggested Deacon. ―Catch your
breath, and collect your nerves.‖
Some of their stories were extreme: a biker who lost his grip on a turn, thrown
into trees at fifty miles an hour; a deer that stepped out of the woods, straight through
the windshield of an Aston-Martin. Randy talked about Eastern Diamondbacks —
massive snakes, thicker than your arm, that crossed the pavement in the sun, making one
hell of a bump. They talked about broken limbs and road rash, the searing friction of a
terminal skid. How the non-leather clothing would melt to a rider‘s skin. How the
asphalt could tear apart flesh.
The stories had to be exaggerations, Dave thought. Like fairy tales, they were
designed to frighten him into paying attention. If so, they had achieved their goal.
533
Deacon described a trio of Mini-Coopers — Red, White, and Blue — that drove
the route as a synchronized unit. ―Like the Blue Angels or something.‖
Emily talked about legions of riders that thundered past on Memorial Day,
veterans of Vietnam and Afghanistan and Iraq. ―Wave after wave. Their echo lasted for
hours.‖ One of them died on a wicked curve. He had been a captain in Fallujah and lost
several men to an IED. According to local rumors, he didn‘t attempt to brake.
Randy described a Swiss playboy, the heir to a banking fortune, who had
shipped his Lamborghini Murciélago to the States and was hoping to break the speed
records on The Dragon and the Cherohala Skyway. ―He came close — that V-12 and its
five hundred horses — but a car can‘t match a bike‘s agility, not on those turns.‖ The
European‘s arrogance had pissed off a few locals, and whispers about the attempt had
trickled to state troopers. They assembled a roadblock at the end of a straightaway —
hoping to confiscate the car, a swank new addition to the fleet.
―Bikers are people too,‖ said Emily. ―Don‘t let them intimidate you.‖ Most
were decent, honest, hard-working citizens. They were out to enjoy the day, same as
him. ―They love their country, the feel of the wind on their face, and the freedom of the
open road.‖
―God, it‘s worse than a beer commercial,‖ said Deacon.
―What about the rest?‖ asked Randy. ―The minority, with more tattoos than
teeth.‖
―Assholes,‖ she said. ―But that‘s still a low percentage, a much better fraction
than the general population.‖
534
The Hia-Wussy
A young woman broke into their huddle. The regulars brightened at her
approach. She blew Harold a kiss and punched Randy on the shoulder. Her hiking pants
were lightweight and technical. A salmon t-shirt featured a pair of boots and the
statement that ―Life is Good.‖
Emily offered a hug from the side. ―Morning, sweetheart. Is your partner-incrime with you?‖
She gestured toward the door. ―Nose in a map. He probably doesn‘t even know
we‘ve stopped.‖ A strand had worked loose from her ponytail. She removed the band
and clenched it between her teeth, re-fashioning the style. ―Karl‘s planning . . . well, he
can explain.‖ Whatever it was, she didn‘t sound thrilled at the prospect.
―That bad?‖
―You don‘t even want to know.‖ She twirled a chair and sat in it backwards.
―He‘s been staring at topos for a week, muttering about gradients and gauges.‖ She
touched Deacon on the wrist. ―He wants to ask you about a trail.‖
―A trail? Not a creek?‖
―Nothing‘s running. The entire Southeast is skunked.‖ Bekah introduced herself
and shook Dave‘s hand. The grip was strong, her arms cut and well-defined.
―Admire those guns,‖ said Randy.
Dave blushed, and Bekah smacked Randy a second time. ―They‘ll punch out of
that hole at Double Suck, a hell of a lot more than yours can boast.‖
535
―Low blow,‖ said Randy. ―Misleading. Another second or two, I could have
worked free.‖
―That‘s right — if not for those meddling clarinets.‖ A raft filled with college
students, she explained. Members of The Pride of the Southland, the marching band at
Tennessee.
The Ocoee River had big waves and strong rapids. It was a popular route for
commercial outfitters, just a few miles downstream of the whitewater venue for the 1996
Olympics. Randy‘s skills as a paddler were questionable, but he talked his way onto their
kayaking trip. As he objected to this description, Bekah‘s hand clamped on his mouth
and stifled the comment. He had been caught in the hydraulic at Double Suck —
exhausted but stubborn, refusing to bail — when a raft slammed his kayak from behind.
The stern pinned, and the bow shot skyward. Randy‘s boat cartwheeled in reverse.
―They weren‘t paying attention,‖ he said. ―They didn‘t wait for the rapid to
clear.‖
―Those poor girls, they didn‘t know an eddy from a wave train,‖ said Bekah.
―Once that current grabbed them, they didn‘t have a choice.‖
―They had a guide. He should have been scouting the line.‖
―Probably thought you were pissing around — surfing and playing in the hole.‖
Was everyone okay? asked Dave.
―Randy‘s paddle knocked one of the girls from the boat. The hole took care of
the rest. Bus stop: everybody off the raft.‖ A few bruises, but they were fine, more
terrified than anything. Bekah was nonchalant, as if swimming a Class IV rapid was no
big deal. She emphasized the humor: the panicked woodwinds bobbing in the current,
536
facing downstream and raising their legs to avoid a foot entrapment — an impromptu,
aquatic parade. They were all wearing PFDs, and the river was crammed with
experienced boaters. ―Safety ropes hit the water as soon as they surfaced, like some sort
of carnival game — hit the band geek with the throw line.‖
―It was too crowded,‖ said Randy. ―And none of those lines came my way.‖
―We thought you were trying to roll, carping for air like that. We didn‘t know
that you‘d already popped the skirt.‖ Randy tried to explain, but she cut him off. ―You
know how to roll, don‘t you? Because you shouldn‘t go begging to run the Ocoee, not
without a solid Eskimo.‖
―I‘ve got a roll.‖
―A flatwater roll,‖ she told Dave. He nodded at the derisive tone, pretending to
understand, and she finished the story with vigor. The guide had been furious, convinced
that Randy was showboating, taunting the oncoming rafts. He chased the kayak for
several minutes. ―Worst case of river rage I‘ve seen in months. Shocked his passengers
worse than their swim — probably got his ass fired.‖ Randy found eddies to peal out and
screened himself behind boulders, so intent on escape that he missed their take-out by
half a mile.
Randy attempted to change the topic. He complained about the horde of boaters
that choked the Ocoee in summer months. What happened to the spirit of paddling? he
asked. A handful of kayaks or rafts in a lonely canyon, not this conveyor belt of shuttle
busses. Like it‘s a ride at a water park, not a scenic river.
―What do you propose?‖ asked Bekah. ―Limit the access, like the Colorado River
through the Grand Canyon, with a ten-year wait for a permit?‖ They argued about
537
solitude. She championed public awareness, teaching a love of rivers to the next
generation.
―What‘s so great about education?‖ he countered. ―So the public overlooks a
pristine stream, some gem like Little Clear Creek?‖
―Fine and lovely, until the TVA drops a micro-generator on some pristine stream
that nobody knows or cares about — no one but paddlers.‖ She dismissed his point with
a wave. ―Besides, what do you know about Little Clear Creek? You read the trip report
on Karl‘s blog. Now you act like you‘ve been there.‖
Wasn‘t that part of the problem? asked Deacon. They posted their photos online,
bragging about epic trips down virgin watersheds, and the crowds followed their tracks.
―The next thing you know, the government‘s charging admission.‖
The conversation fell from one topic to the next, a stream dropping off the
Plateau. They argued about public and private lands, about gated communities that
owned entire mountains.
Emily slipped next to Dave. ―Look at Randy,‖ she said, ―talking like he‘s a
paddler.‖
―I‘ve run my fair share of rivers,‖ he claimed.
―A fair share?‖ challenged Bekah.
―The Ocoee. The Hiawassee. The Nantahala.‖
The syllable count was striking, yet she wasn‘t impressed. ―The Hia-wussy.‖
―The Tellico.‖
―The Tellico? I watched you run the Tellico.‖ She turned to Dave. ―Launched
his boat, said a prayer, and held on for dear life.‖
538
―I only swam twice.‖
―You survived the trip,‖ Bekah said. ―That doesn‘t make you a paddler.‖
539
Randy Volunteers
―What do you know about Panther Creek?‖ Karl pushed Deacon‘s stacks to one
side, clearing space for a map of the Smoky Mountains.
―Do you mind?‖ Deacon asked. ―Some of us are trying to work.‖
―In this crowd? I doubt it.‖ Karl‘s t-shirt was black, his hiking shorts grey. He
leaned across the table. ―Panther Creek.‖
Deacon sighed, bent to the young man‘s resolve. ―You won‘t find any panthers.
Not anymore, at least.‖ He touched the center of the park. ―Panther Creek Trail. Steep
but short. Two, maybe 2½ miles from the Middle Prong to Jakes Gap.‖
―Not that Panther Creek.‖ Karl pointed to a less developed section. ―Down
here.‖ Dave tried to glimpse Shuckstack on the map.
Two streams with the same name? said Emily. Wasn‘t that unusual?
Not really, said Deacon. The names got established early, long before the maps.
Chances were, the people who named each creek didn‘t know about the others. There
were Panther Creeks in Georgia and North Carolina as well.
―Damn plagiarists,‖ said Randy.
―Trust me,‖ said Deacon. ―If you encountered a mountain lion in the
backcountry, it seemed plenty original to you.‖
540
They examined the stream. Karl emphasized its length: greater than Twentymile,
than Lynn Camp Prong.
It‘s got legs, agreed Deacon, but look at the narrow ravine. Insignificant feeders,
a modest watershed. ―You might be able to kayak this last mile.‖ He slid his finger over
the contours. ―Not much else, even at flood stage.‖ Besides, he added, the streambed
was probably choked with wood, especially at the higher elevations.
―I‘m not scouting a run.‖
A snort exposed Bekah‘s opinion. ―So you‘ve said.‖
―You still don‘t believe me?‖
―Of course not.‖ She described his plan to the others. Karl intended to
bushwhack the entire length of Panther Creek, from its headwaters on Gregory Bald to its
juncture with Abrams Creek.
―Why in God‘s name would you want to do that?‖ asked Emily.
It‘s only ten miles, he said.
―For a hawk,‖ said Deacon. ―Twice as long, if you‘re following that winding
creek.‖
―Not twice as long.‖
―Say fifteen,‖ said Bekah. ―Fifteen miles of loose scree, copperhead dens,
rhododendron hells and yellowjacket nests.‖
―Nothing we haven‘t seen before.‖
But he would be out in the backcountry, miles from a marked trail. What if he
snapped his ankle? ―It‘s not like Thunderhead Prong, where the anglers show up like
clockwork.‖
541
Accidents could happen anywhere, thought Dave, including the places you ought
to be safe. How many times had Grandpa hiked the Middle Prong?
―At least be honest with yourself,‖ said Bekah. ―You‘re scouting the creek,
hoping to bag a first descent that Alex hasn‘t claimed. If you insist on dragging yourself
through this misery — because make no mistake, it‘s going to be miserable — then for
God‘s sake, try to admit why.‖
Dave sensed her deeper concern, the fear for her boyfriend‘s safety, and squirmed
at this couple‘s debate in such a public forum. No one else seemed to mind. Emily
moderated the argument from the espresso machine. Which might be the key. Checked
by older and wiser souls, the couple could spar in safety. They were kept from
statements they‘d later regret — boxing with gloves and adhering to rules, not fighting a
bare-knuckled cage match.
Karl insisted that Panther Creek was safe. It wasn‘t completely isolated.
Fishermen used Parson Branch Road to access the headwaters, drawn to the springs that
regulated its temperature. Down at its mouth, hikers searched for the overgrown path to
an old slate quarry, and paddlers like Alex had scouted and run those final miles. Only
the middle section was truly remote.
Deacon confirmed this information. He knew about an unmaintained trail and a
derelict rail car, somewhere along those final miles.
―This one?‖ Karl unfolded two sheets of paper. One of them was crowded with
photos, the other with maps. He pointed to a rusting machine, then a series of rapids.
―Logjam. Downtime. Back Seat Driver.‖ From Raymer‘s website, he told Bekah.
―What does Alex say?‖
542
―Narrow stream. Mostly Class III action. A few Class IVs.‖
She examined the pictures. ―Which means there‘s a Class V drop you‘re not
telling me about.‖
―Nothing too gnarly, as long as you scout the line and know how to boof.‖
One of the photographs was older than the rest, a black and white print that had
started to fade. A party was perched on a boulder, the women all dressed in skirts and
blouses. Grandpa had talked about settlers like them. They trekked the mountains in
high-button shoes.
―Garner Falls, a mile upstream from Abrams.‖ Karl pointed to a color shot of a
similar rock. The water level was higher, and a rapid was visible to the right. ―Alex calls
it Back Seat Driver.‖
―How old is that picture?‖ asked Dave.
Karl shrugged. Turn of the century, said Deacon, sometime before the TVA
flooded the valley. He listed the names of creeks, evidence of the long-abandoned
settlements: Blacksmith Branch, Shop Creek, Tarkiln Branch.
Randy pointed to a stream that crashed down a boulder garden. ―What‘s that?‖
―Panther Creek Falls. It‘s a twenty-footer that nobody visits, since it‘s hard as
hell to reach.‖
Deacon was skeptical. ―Every time you describe a new stream, you mention this
mysterious, twenty-foot waterfall that no one has ever run.‖ He looked at Dave. ―It‘s the
perfect height for a tale: large enough to grab your attention, but not unbelievable.‖
Karl tapped the photo. ―Visual confirmation.‖
―Wouldn‘t you break your hull on those rocks?‖ asked Bekah.
543
―No, there‘s a line—‖ Karl paused, checking himself, but her grin was already a
mile wide. Even Dave saw him blunder into the trap.
―A line? I thought you weren‘t scouting a run.‖
Her objection had little to do with the rapids. If Karl intended to break his neck,
he could do it like a rational human being. Her problem involved his numbskull scheme
— in particular, the way that he‘d suckered her into the plan.
1. Karl had retained an ounce of sense.
He knew that he couldn‘t bushwhack the
entire creek in a single day, especially
with such a late start. Because Parson
Branch Road was one-way only, they
needed to circle the park and enter through
Cades Cove. The loop would be crowded,
even on a weekday. The leaves were
starting to turn, and tourists were out in
force.
2. Given the thick undergrowth, travelling with a pack would be challenging. At the
same time, it was boar territory, and he didn‘t relish sleeping in the open. The night was
supposed to get cold, close to freezing at the higher elevations. For some unknown
reason, Bekah had agreed to hike a parallel course on the Hannah Mountain Trail. She
would carry a tent, sleeping bags, and enough food for them both. At Flint Gap, she
would pitch their tent and relax at Campsite 14. Karl would ascend the Gregory Ridge
544
Trail, almost to Panther Gap, and cut into the backcountry to find the creek‘s source. He
would follow the stream down the
western slope of Gregory Bald, re-cross
Parson Branch Road, and continue until
the creek‘s junction with Bear Den
Branch. Then ascend the ravine and join
Bekah for the night. She‘d feed him,
dump iodine on his cuts, and remove the
inevitable ticks.
3. The next morning, Karl would re-trace
his steps and continue downstream to
Abrams Creek. Bekah would pack up
camp, return to the car, and meet Karl
when he emerged from the woods. Thus
he avoided a second problem: getting
someone — Bekah, most likely — to
shuttle him back to retrieve a car.
Deacon ridiculed the plan. It was convoluted, inconvenient, and pointless — the
trifecta of stupidity.
What foolish bet had Bekah lost? Emily wanted to know. Whatever it was, the
payment exceeded the wager.
545
Randy was actually supportive, a fan of impossible schemes. ―Anything
Quioxtic.‖ He drew his arm around Dave. ―Like the quest of our newfound friend.‖ His
only objection was the ill-conceived design. They‘d waste hours on the drive through
Cades Cove, and if Karl pursued his search for the springs, he wouldn‘t re-cross the road
until late in the afternoon. Autumn shadows would be filling the ravine: he‘d spend half
the night looking for Bear Den Branch. Better to abandon that initial step and focus on
the wild, untamed section.
Dave found himself drifting, staring out windows and looking for birds. He was
fond of maps, but this . . . well, this was ludicrous. Was this how his lectures sounded to
students who weren‘t interested in mathematics? He had newfound compassion for their
weary eyes.
Karl agreed to the suggestion, but Randy hadn‘t finished. In that case, why not
swap two hours in the car for two hours on the trail?
How‘s that? Bekah asked.
Randy tapped Parson Branch Road. ―A shortcut.‖
Karl threw up his hands in disgust. ―That’s your grand idea? Driving the wrong
way on a one-lane gravel road with sharp corners, no shoulders, and RVs?‖
Randy smacked Karl on the head. ―Doofus. I‘m not an idiot. You‘ll be hiking
the road, not driving it. Bekah‘s heading to the Abrams Creek Ranger Station, cutting her
drive down to fifteen minutes.‖ She let out a cheer. ―She‘ll hike‖ — he counted the
mileage — ―about 5½ miles to the campsite.‖ He showed her the trails: a mile longer, a
brief climb at the start, but better than Cades Cove traffic.
―What about me?‖ asked Karl.
546
―Hold your horses. You‘ll get dropped off here, where Parson Branch exits the
park, and hike four, maybe four-and-a-half miles on an easy grade. You should actually
arrive at Panther Creek a half hour sooner than you‘d reach it by driving. Plus, you‘ll get
to enjoy yourself in the forest, away
from the Ohio tourists.‖
Karl was not happy with the
plan: he would waste his energy on
the approach. But Bekah embraced
the idea, and he had little choice but
to acquiesce. ―Have it your way. For
the life of me, I have no idea why
you‘re interested in messing up my
day. Don‘t you have other lives to
ruin?‖
―Not yet.‖ Randy winked at Dave.
―So who‘s giving me a ride, if Bekah‘s heading straight to Abrams Creek? I
thought you were finished with shuttles.‖
―That‘s correct, sir. I‘ve given up shuttles for Lent.‖
―It‘s October, dear,‖ said Emily.
―Extended Lent. A glorious, yearlong reprieve from hauling his ass across the
Southeast.‖
The last time he ran a shuttle, a kayak had scratched his door. According to Karl,
he whined about it for hours.
547
―It wasn‘t the scratch. That washed-out mule track tore up my suspension.‖
―Don‘t care. If you‘re not offering to drive me, you‘re wasting our time.‖ Karl
turned to Bekah. ―He‘s dicking around with us. Let‘s stick to the plan and get moving.‖
―Wait a second,‖ Randy said. ―I won‘t drive you to Parson Branch. But David
will.‖
To Be Continued . . .
548
REFERENCES
Works Cited
Anderson, Sherwood. Winesburg, Ohio. New York: Penguin, 1919.
Baxter, Charles. Burning Down the House: Essays on Fiction. Saint Paul, MN:
Graywolf, 1997.
Baxter, Charles and Peter Turchi. ―Introduction.‖ Bringing the Devil to His Knees: The
Craft of Fiction and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and Peter Turchi. Ann
Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2001. 1-6.
Boswell, Robert. ―Narrative Spandrels.‖ Bringing the Devil to His Knees: The Craft of
Fiction and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and Peter Turchi. Ann Arbor:
The University of Michigan Press, 2001. 138-147.
Calvino, Italo. Six Memos for the Next Millennium. New York: Vintage: 1988.
Cofer, Judith Ortiz. ―Taking the Macho.‖ Woman in Front of the Sun: On Becoming a
Writer. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2000. 63-72.
Dillard, Annie. An American Childhood. In Three by Annie Dillard. New York:
HarperPerennial, 1987. 261-542.
Dillard, Annie. ―Living Like Weasels.‖ Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and
Encounters. New York: Harper & Row, 1982. 11-16.
Dillard, Annie. The Writing Life. In Three by Annie Dillard. New York:
HarperPerennial, 1989. 543-617.
Forster, E.M. Aspects of the Novel. San Diego: Harcourt, 1927.
Franklin, Benjamin. The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin. 2nd ed. New Haven:
Yale UP, 1964.
Gardner, John. On Becoming a Novelist. New York: Harper & Row, 1983.
Garrett, George. ―An Evening Performance.‖ An Evening Performance: New and
Selected Stories. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State UP, 1985. 3-12.
549
Hribal, C.J. ―The Scene Breast Is Hungry.‖ Bringing the Devil to His Knees: The Craft
of Fiction and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and Peter Turchi. Ann
Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2001. 148-161.
Lamott, Anne. bird by bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. New York:
Doubleday, 1994.
L‘Engle, Madeleine. Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. Colorado
Springs: WaterBrook, 1980.
Martone, Michael. ―Ruining a Story.‖ Bringing the Devil to His Knees: The Craft of
Fiction and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and Peter Turchi. Ann Arbor:
The University of Michigan Press, 2001. 197-208.
Neville, Susan. ―Where‘s Iago?‖ Bringing the Devil to His Knees: The Craft of Fiction
and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and Peter Turchi. Ann Arbor: The
University of Michigan Press, 2001. 31-44.
O‘Connor, Flannery. Mystery and Manners. Eds. Sally and Robert Fitzgerald. New
York: Farrar, Straus, & Giroux, 1969.
O‘Connor, Flannery. Wise Blood. In Three by Flannery O’Connor. New York: Signet,
1949. 7-126.
Of Fiction and Faith: Twelve American Writers Talk about Their Vision and Work. Ed.
W. Dale Brown. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 1997.
Rowe, James. ―Love Lifted Me.‖ 1912.
Shepard, Jim. ―I Know Myself Real Well. That‘s the Problem.‖ Bringing the Devil to
His Knees: The Craft of Fiction and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and
Peter Turchi. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2001. 18-30.
Turchi, Peter. ―The Writer as Cartographer.‖ Bringing the Devil to His Knees: The Craft
of Fiction and the Writing Life. Eds. Charles Baxter and Peter Turchi. Ann
Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2001. 162-179.
Wier, Allen. ―Skin and Bones: George Garrett‘s Living Spirits.‖ Bad Man Blues: A
Portable George Garrett. Dallas: Southern Methodist UP, 1998. xii-xxv.
550
Photographs
Unless noted, all photographs are by Matthew Forsythe.
The trillium photographs on pages 44 and 530 were provided by Gretchen Forsythe.
The photograph of the Neil Armstrong Air and Space Museum on page 148 was provided
by Ron Lambert.
The photographs of sights along the Miami River Valley on pages 327, 328, and 330
were provided by Lawrence Forsythe.
Maps
The 2007-2009 Ohio Official Transportation Map — the source for maps and graphics on
pages 44, 147, 148, 160, 161, 181, 184, 207, 317, 318, 319, 320, 321, 322, 326,
339, and 345 — comes from the Ohio Department of Transportation
(www.dot.state.oh.us.maps).
The 2010 Official Highway Map of Kentucky — the source for maps on pages 317, 365,
382, 386, and 495 — comes from the Kentucky Transportation Cabinet
(www.planning.kytc.ky.gov.maps.asp).
The 2010 Official Transportation Map of Tennessee — the source for the maps on pages
44, 48, 52, 395, 499, 500, 504, and 506 — comes from the Tennessee Department
of Transportation (www.tdot.state.tn.us.maps).
The Park Map of Great Smoky Mountains National Park — the source for maps on pages
44, 49, 506, and 543 — comes from the U.S. National Park Service
(www.nps.gov.grsm).
The Trail Map of Great Smoky Mountains National Park — the source for maps on pages
50, 544, and 546 — comes from the U.S. National Park Service
(www.nps.gov.grsm).
551
APPENDIX
Family Histories: Samuel & Lily, Part I
Dave‘s Grandpa (Samuel Walker) –
Who, as a young man hiking the ravines of the Hockhocking valley, never believed he
would live outside southeast Ohio. But Samuel, born amid the low hills and slowmoving rivers near Logan, was doomed to find love in Tennessee, first in the creeks and
ridges of the Appalachian Mountains, which he traced during training marches with the
13th Airborne Division — the Eagle‘s Claw, Thunder from Heaven — and later in the
person of Lily, his wife, who he knew in the imagination long before meeting her in the
flesh.
When he left for the war, he had every intention of returning to Cantwell Cliffs
and Old Man‘s Cave with his sweetheart, Evelyn, to finish the proposal he never had
nerve to begin. During his tour of Europe, whether lost in the Ardennes or clinging to a
bridgehead on the Rhine, he would envision the campaign sweeping past Berlin, turning
back to England and New York, then on toward Conkle‘s Hollow and the bonfires of
home. Victory arrived, the pincer movement of two unstoppable armies crushing the
Reich, a victory stemming from overwhelming force but predicated on the resolve of the
common Grunt, the ability of men like Samuel to suffer and endure more than they had
believed possible.
552
So when his unit commander began to talk of the Pacific theater, Samuel refused
to accept that anything else could be asked — that would be too much, because he‘d
fought his share, lost his share, and stockpiled nightmares for a lifetime. The atomic
blasts sated the war‘s demand for sacrifice, but Samuel never knew the moment the
clouds lifted and cleared. By then he‘d slipped into a haze of transport ships and distant,
cheering crowds, a bed in the psychiatric ward of an Army hospital in Oklahoma City,
where he woke one April morning in 1946, a thousand miles from home, to discover the
country well ahead of him in its recovery. A half year was missing from his life that he
never quite remembered, at least that he‘d admit. Next to his bed was a note from his
mother, already opened — by him or a nurse, he never recalled. It told him that Evelyn
had died of influenza.
As his night terrors lessened, Samuel began to relive those drills in the southern
mountains, the long treks under a clear, brilliant sky, the fall days that stayed pleasant,
long after the first frost north of the Ohio River. And he longed to walk those paths
again, listening for warbler and nuthatch rather than incoming shells — eyes open for
copperheads, not concealed snipers. He remembered one fine day in particular, when he
had slipped away on a day pass and hitched a three hour ride with a buddy to some
mountain town in the North Carolina foothills, a nameless destination that he later
determined must have been Bryson City. It was a trip without purpose, no motivation
other than elemental needs: to race fast and hard, to press forward until they ran out of
time, longing for a sight memorable enough to recall during the months, coming soon,
when all heaven and earth would conspire to make them forget.
553
They dropped the overheated car at a mechanic‘s shop and grabbed a sandwich,
so his mouth was full as she passed in front of the diner window. He missed her face,
saw only the cascade of golden brown hair on a soft purple dress, and forever after the
taste of a club sandwich would trigger the smell of lilacs.
―Now that‘s a wildflower if I ever saw one,‖ he said. ―That‘s something worth
fighting a war over.‖
―Chase her down,‖ his buddy said. ―Ask her name.‖
―I don‘t need to know her name. A name could only detract.‖
―How are you going to face the Krauts if you can‘t even face a woman?‖
―I‘ll know what to do when I need to do it.‖
―What‘s that supposed to mean?‖
―You tell me.‖ Samuel returned to his sandwich.
His mother‘s letters grew more and more grim. His brothers survived the war,
though Jason had walked with a limp since Anzio. His cousin Rebecca was healthy, as
was her daughter, but her husband had died in a B-24 near the Solomon Islands. Her
brother had enlisted earlier than the others. When he disappeared in the fall of Manila,
they had grieved his loss, none harder than Samuel, who had hunted with his cousin on
November mornings, their bodies steaming in cold Ohio fields as they tracked wild
turkeys with their sights. But Martin was alive, they now learned, having escaped into
the Philippine jungles and fought among the guerilla resistance until MacArthur returned.
Martin refused to describe his adventures, sitting on the porch and staring into the fields
behind their house. Samuel understood. The time to talk would come, but not soon.
554
Samuel returned to Tennessee after his discharge, studying journalism at the
university in Knoxville and hiking the trails of the Smokies in his spare time, driving on
occasion across Newfound Gap and into Bryson City, but never recovering the memory
he chased. A few years passed, and his love for the mountains deepened, despite the
contrary voices that claimed he‘d always be an outsider by birth, that a Yankee could
never grasp the Appalachian landscape. He might learn its contours and ecology, but he
could never touch its soul. He never countered — as he could have — that Southeast
Ohio was more Appalachian in spirit than Midwest, because he bristled at the very notion
that a man had to be born in a place to understand it. No, he answered, sometimes you‘re
born in your homeland, and sometimes you spend a lifetime hunting for it. Like the
woman you marry, he‘d add. Sometimes you grow up next to her, and sometimes you
have to cross a mountain range and an ocean and back again (through a mental ward in
Oklahoma, he‘d think but never say) until you reach her doorstep. But you‘re not
married, they‘d say. After all that, you still haven‘t found her. But I will, he‘d answer.
I‘ve discovered the land I love. The woman I love cannot be far away.
Then one day, passing through Maryville on his way to the mountains, he stopped
downtown for lunch, another club sandwich that smelled of lilacs, and thought about that
afternoon seven years earlier, and soon he was no longer remembering the scene but reliving it, as the girl he had once seen and then lost was walking down the opposite side of
the street, and this time the sandwich was left behind, because he was running after her,
and she turning as he called, ―Excuse me, Miss. Have you ever been to Bryson City?‖
555
Dave‘s Grandma (Lily MacAllen) –
Who answered No, that she‘d never been to Bryson City, and continued to answer No for
six months as Samuel insisted that she was the girl in his dreams. She had lived in the
Tennessee River valley north of Dayton, on a farm now flooded beneath the handiwork
of the TVA, and had moved to Maryville to teach second grade in the Blount County
schools. So she suffered Samuel‘s postulations about the Tennessee landscape, though
she knew that one‘s home was something to be lost, not found, with each rainbow in the
sky a bitter sign, a reminder that God, in his love and mercy, would never again destroy
the earth by flood, since man‘s lust for power — the miles and miles of high-voltage
wires that marched away from the turbines and dams — could finish the job on its own.
But she hid this knowledge deep. She continued to deny that she‘d been to Bryson City,
although she began to wish that she‘d hailed from a mountain town, not the submerged
valley she once considered home.
And she continued to answer No until he decided, finally, to settle the deal and
coerce her into his automobile and drive her the three hours into North Carolina, intent on
jogging her recollection once and for all. They walked all over that town and along the
trails that surrounded it until she confirmed, though he still denied her denial, that she
couldn‘t possibly be the woman of his dreams. They ran out of daylight, and because the
spinster who rented Lily a room had already glared at Samuel for planning to take her out
of Tennessee — as if the state line represented a boundary between questionable morality
and outright sin — he proposed a solution: that they stay the night, honeymoon in the
mountains and spend the rest of their lives recovering her memory. And Lily answered
Yes.
556
To Samuel—
Who found a semblance of peace, and his nightmares lessened, nearly a decade after the
night he‘d spent in hell — running a guide rope across the Rhine and listening helplessly
with the crew of the lead raft as the boats in their wake were upturned, flipped by the
current, and he could not see the other members of the company, though he could hear
their cries, the screams of men swept into eternal night. But now, with Lily sleeping
beside him, their shouts began to fade and life was good, with a wife he loved and a
respectable job at the local paper, where his diligence had impressed the editors who‘d
been skeptical of this Yankee‘s ability to cover both the dark hollows of Blount County
and the restless streets of Knoxville. He‘d continued to hike, and he started to contribute
articles about his time in the forest to regional magazines. The two of them moved into a
small house near Maryville College, and as they worked in the garden and yard, he‘d
watch her move within her sundress and dream about ways to impress her, to make her
life as happy as she deserved.
But Lily—
Who loved her husband, truly, could not pour out her spirit the way he invited. Because
she mourned, wept for her lost home as she worked the tiny plot of land that made
Samuel so happy but only reminded her of the acres buried beneath the inland sea,
darkened forever and crossed by barges and fishing boats, unaware that they trespassed
on a young girl‘s playground. Though she tried to believe that her new house could be
her home as well, she found the deception impossible. She could never release her
devotion to the former, and no woman can serve two masters: the heart may be easily
557
swayed, but the body‘s loyalty to a physical place, her fealty to that one swath of earth
she cherishes above all else, can only be given once. And she loved her husband because
he could never know this, that she had withheld herself from him as she tithed the
firstfruits of her love to the ruined land.
For a year she worked in their garden, noticing more and more girls among the
Maryville College students and wondering if she, too, might return as a scholar. New
possibilities startled her, who had always considered herself a farmer in a schoolteacher‘s
guise. She could study writing, telling of the place she‘d lost . . . or politics, to ensure the
rights of the vulnerable — the men and women betrothed to a parcel of land . . . or
Engineering, even, she mused one hot summer afternoon, to learn ways to dynamite that
concrete abomination to hell, blasting away the desecration damning the flow of a holy
river. But she never became that renegade demolitions expert she so briefly envisioned,
because that evening, as she lay in bed, she sensed that her body had somehow changed,
and within a month their physician had confirmed the pregnancy.
Samuel—
Who was delighted at the news of the coming birth, for he had always regretted the
distance between him and his Ohio kin, but could now found a new, Southern branch of
the Walker family tree. After a long hike along the slopes of Gregory Bald, he returned
home and announced that — if the child was a girl — she would be named Laurel.
558
Lily—
Whose family tree had died almost a decade earlier, as one brother sought death in the
rafters of their condemned barn and the other secured it on the beaches of Normandy,
where men proved the sacrifice they would make to possess a sliver of sand and rock.
After scanning the two centuries of names recorded in the MacAllen family Bible, she
informed her husband that Laurel would be acceptable for a daughter, but that if the child
was a son, he would be named Fear.